Consequences to the Grave
by lizoftheinfinite
Summary: The final battle between heaven and hell is coming, and Christophe has to choose a side. M for graphic violence and Christophe's mouth. Mild slash. Completed!
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: Violence. Angst. Profanity. Terrible French accents. Excessive typos. More profanity. Mild slash. Lots and lots of excessively detailed blood and guts. Enjoy! **

Rope binds Christophe's hands behind his back. Fibers twist into the soft flesh of his wrists. Blood drips over his fingers and pools on the ground next to his feet.

Forty other children shiver in line next to him. Most of them are crying.

The blond kid standing two people away from Christophe says nothing, just stares straight ahead. Christophe doesn't know what about him makes him stand out – maybe it's the fact that he doesn't seem affected by the hell around them.

Christophe looks at the ground.

A huge bonfire crackles and spits out flickers of orange flame, igniting the night sky before fizzling away. Smoke burns in his nose, weighing on his arms and legs, clinging to his mud-spattered and ripped clothing.

Christophe is six years old.

The pound of heavy footsteps meet his ears, and he looks up. A man in a business suit walks into the clearing and stands next to the fire. A dozen guards flank him, as if the children could do anything to hurt him. These new guards join the armed men already in the clearing.

Christophe has been standing in the cold for an hour. The fire hasn't done anything for the chill. He hasn't eaten in several days and it's been longer since he's slept. He really does not give a damn what the man in the suit has to say, he just wants him to get it over with so this can all end one way or another.

"You are all here," the man in the suit says after a few seconds of consideration, "because your parents sold you to us for a two million U.S. dollars."

Christophe has suspected as much. His mother and father bought a new house right before these guards dragged him away and stashed him and Owen on the airplane, then on the train with all the other pathetic children. They've been-living with dirt-poor poverty in France for the past few years, even since his mother gambled away the last of their savings.

_So they finally sold their own sons. _

"We are here to train you," the man in the suit continues, "for a very specific type of job. We will train you in a special school so one day you can help us out with this job you've been trained for."

It sounds better than digging breakfast out of a trashcan, but after being manhandled for the past several days, Christophe isn't about to let his guard down. He glances down the line to see how Owen is holding up. His twin brother just hugs himself and shakes. He has always been the weaker one; Christophe's always had to watch out for him.

"Unfortunately-" The man stops talking and takes a second to survey each of the children. "We only need ten of you. The other thirty are useless to us. We are going to decide which ten we're going to keep right now."

"How-" a little boy starts. The soldiers shift and the little boy stiffens.

"Morons," a hispanic girl mutters next two people down from Christophe. "Why'd they buy forty of us if they only needed ten?"

The man in the suit hears her. "The other thirty will serve as an example," he says.

"_Para que_?" the little girl spits.

At the end of the row, about five down from Christophe, is a little girl in a sunflower dress and ratty blonde pigtails. Tears pour down her cheeks. She quivers in place.

The man in the suit crouches down in front of her. "What's your name, sweetie?" he asks.

"Mandy," she whispers back. "I want my mommy. I want her. I really do-"

The man shakes his head. "She's a tosser," he tells a soldier.

All of the children hear as the soldier grabs her and drags her into the darkness beyond the bonfire. They all hear a blade _shink!_ into flesh. Then Mandy doesn't say anything else, and the soldier comes back into the clearing coated with blood.

The little boy who's next in line starts sobbing. He's American. He begs, "God, please, save me, God, I'm sorry, don't let him hurt me."

The man in the suit shakes his head. "He's a tosser, too."

There are no "keepers" until they arrive at the boy two people away from Christophe, the blond haired one who has stared straight ahead this entire time. All of the children are shivering by now, but they daren't run – whenever one of them tries to move the soldiers start forward with their guns clenched.

"What's your name?" the man in the suit asks.

"Gregory." The blonde-haired boy looks him right in the eye. He has an English accent and dark blue eyes. _ Fucking brits._

"I see," the man in the suit says. "And what do you think of all this, Gregory?" He crouches in front of him, so close their noses almost touch.

Gregory doesn't bat an eyelid. "I'm thinking there must be a more efficient way to do this."

The man in the suit laughs. He turns to look at his soldiers. "This one's a keeper for sure!"

The little boy next to Christophe screams for his god to help him. They don't even bother to drag him away. They just stab him right next to Christophe. Blood spatters over Christophe's clothing. The little boy's cries for mercy echo in his ears. It's the first time someone's lifeblood has ever splattered over him. (It won't be the last).

The man in the suit stands in front of him and opens his mouth to speak.

Christophe trembles with fear and anger and horror, but he still manages to spit in the man's face. For a second, neither of them move. Then the man brushes away the spit and looks at Christophe with more than a little surprise.

"You're a fucking cocksucker," Christophe snarls in heavily accented English. "Burn in hell,_ bitch_!"

The man in the suit laughs again. Christophe is pronounced a "keeper." The tiny Asian girl standing next to him is not. She begs in a language Christophe does not understand.

They all beg. In the end, it's only the ones who do not beg who make it. The genders are not balanced – eight boys and two girls are left alive – but it doesn't matter, because Owen is not one of the survivors.

That's the night Christophe decides God is a fucking faggot.

XXX

The alarm goes off right just as I click the dial right to the third number of the combination. My gloved hands clench over the lock and I yank on the handle. The safe door groans and opens.

Alarms annoy me. They're loud and they never fucking shut up.

I wonder if the alarm went off because the wrong person touched the safe (i.e., me) or because someone's on the video cameras and they noticed a random teenager covered in mud with a shovel strapped to his back and a coil of rope wrapped around his right arm.

I would imagine random teenagers don't spend much time in the hallways of the Super Adventure club's mansion.

I reach into the safe and pull out the sheaf of files. There are at least three dozen thin folders. I know what they should contain but flip through them just to make sure, shuddering when I see the pictures of cheerful children. Zimbabwe kids in one file, Fillipinos in another, Australian bush children in a third – each kid has a list of information next to his picture.

_Fucking pedos._ I tuck the files under my shirt and take a drag from my cigarette. The alarm is still blaring, but since no one's arrived yet . . . t_hey're probably cowering in their beds like the cocksucking pussies they are. _

Then I heard the barks.

My head jerks up. My hand goes to the wooden handle of my shovel.

Fucking dogs! I fucking _hate _guard dogs!

I take off at a full sprint. My shovel bangs against my back as I run. Adrenaline spurts into my bloodstream and my senses go wild. I absorb everything at a million miles a minute - the harsh pants of the guard dogs behind me . . . the slap of the tiled floor against my combat boots . . . police sirens screaming half a mile away.

A dog claws at my legs. _Shit! Shit!_ Another one bites at my foot. _Fuck!_ I slide my shovel from the strap holding it against my back and slam the metal blade against its head. A satisfying _crack!_ rings through the hallway.

My left hand keeps the files under my shirt. My right swings my shovel as I battle the dozen dogs surrounding me. My cigarette falls out of my mouth sometime during the fight, but I duck, scoop it up, and jam it back between my lips without breaking rhythm. Blood runs down my legs and the dogs' canines rip my pants and green t-shirt.

I smack their leader down, and they slink back. I lean against the wall, struggling for breath, watching the half-dozen remaining mutts with wary, narrowed eyes. They crowd around me, growling, but don't attack, not yet.

Then the police burst into the hallway, screaming for me to throw my hands in the air.

XXX

"Mr.-"

"Dupont." It's a lie, of course, but it sounds stereotypically French enough for him to stop bothering me about it.

"Mr. Dupont. Right." The police officer adjusts the clipboard on the table in front of me. I take a drag on my cigarette. I don't know if it's regulation for me to smoke in the middle of a police station, but they haven't stopped me yet so I don't care.

"We just want to know what you were doing in the Secret Adventure Club's hiding place."

I let out a frustrated growl. "Fighting zome guard dogs, what deed it look like I was doing?"

He stares at me for a few seconds. "You do know it's private property, right?"

"I don't care if it's zere fucking private property. I was still fighting ze guard dogs there. No amount of ownership can change zat fact."

He lets this pass. "Fine, Mr. Dupont. _Why _were you there?"

I shrug.

He tries to lock gazes with me but I keep focus on his forehead. "Mr. Dupont, you're what, fifteen, sixteen-"

"Seventeen."

"Right. Seventeen. Where are your parents? I'm sure they must be very worried-"

I let out a short laugh. "Trust me, Monsieur Police Officer, I am sure my muzzere is in no way concerned. Now. You 'ave ze items you seized from me when you took me in, _oui_? I can explain my reason for trespassing if you bring zem to me."

He's so thrilled to get a positive reaction out of me that he doesn't even doubt the intelligence of his actions. He calls for my things, and a few minutes later another police officer brings my rope, my shovel, and the files I had tucked under my shirt. Oui. They drop them on the table and exit the interrogation room.

"Well?" the police officer says expectantly.

"You see," I say, then whack him over the head with my shovel.

He goes out, crashing to the floor. "Take that, cocksucker," I mutter. I wrap the rope around my shoulder and arm and smash the glass window into the main hallway with the shovel blade. I leave the files on the table. It's enough incriminating evidence to put the Super Adventure Club under lock and key for a long time, which was all my client (her name being Akna) wanted, anyway.

The police officers shout when I leap into the main hallway of the station. I club my way out of the station, using my shovel as a battering ram.

Once I'm out of the office and on the street, I duck into an alley. They run after me, of course, but I start to weave my way down the maze of backstreets that hide in Vancouver, Canada. Three cops scream and run after me, shouting for me to stop.

_Oui, assholes, that _**always**_ fucking works._

I make my way into a park, heaving, gasping for breath. The officers are only a few hundred feet behind me. My combat boots scuff dark soil. I twist around a tree and snatch my shovel from behind my back. I dip it into the earth below my feet.

Digging is the one thing that makes people realize there's something supernatural about me. My muscles move in a blur of action. White light glows around me as I work. Every inch of me sings. In less than a second, I've already got a hole five feet deep.

"Jesus Christ!" I hear one of the officers scream, but by the time the words leave her lips I've already started on the tunnel, angled downwards and west-bound. "How the fuck-"

A bullet fires over my head. My tunnel extends five feet by now. I take a second to pack the dirt in behind me.

The darkness swallows me up. The silence hums through me. Earth coats my arms and legs and clothes. Alone. Fucking beautiful.

My muscles churning, my lungs burning for sweet air, barely managing to scrape out enough into this chemical-caked earth . . . I start to make my way through the ground.

XXX

I find my backpack where I left it, which is two miles outside the Super Adventure Club's mansion. I rifle through it to make sure nothing's missing.

My laptop, the charger, and the portable satellite broadband are in place. I have half a dozen different maps stashed in the front pocket. My first-aid kit is almost empty, but it was that way when I left it last night. A few packs of cigarettes nestle in the bottom of the bag, and I fish one out.

The front pocket also holds seventy-two dollars, most of it in ones. That's it and I'm out. I have seventy-two dollars to make my way to Ms. Akna's reservation to Alaska. Then she'll pay me the five hundred I'm owed, which is enough to live on more a month or so. It wouldn't cost so damn much if I didn't have so many expenses from trying to cover my ass. The last thing I want is for some moron to get a picture of me, splash it all over the internet, and have the Yardale school capture me the way they've been trying desperately for the past ten years.

After I get my money from Ms. Akna . . . well, I have about two hundred requests waiting for me in my work email inbox. I'll select another job, scope out the target/request/whatever, and make my move. Then I'll have enough money to survive for the next couple months.

Sounds like an amazing plan to me.

I hoist my backpack over my shoulders and start back for Vancouver.

XXX

My picture is splashed across a thousand billboards. My sulky scowl stares down at me from every sign, every telephone post, every inch of space.

Once I step from the side streets and make my way to the bus station. Sixteen people recognize me in the nine seconds it takes me to realize _I'm_ _fucking everywhere._

I don't know when they took my picture or how they pasted it to the framework of Vancouver in the three hours it took me to dig from the park to my backpack, crawl through my tunnel back here, and saunter through the mostly-deserted streets. My crimes are scribbled across my wanted pictures. All the local authority knows about me is that I'm a trespasser. They have no way of knowing about the robberies, the assassinations, or the frequent beatings I give crime-lords (when I'm hired).

Someone from Yardale must have seen me at the police station. Maybe the Vancouver Police put a request out with my picture, looking for someone who knew who I was. I know Gregory's still searching for me, and he may have Maria and Chase's aid. They would have been on it once they saw the picture.

They will rip apart the world for any hint of my trail.

I duck into an alleyway. For the second time in the past twelve hours the sirens scream into my ears. The park is a mile away; too far to sprint. I slip down the alley.

"Stop!"

I turn to see a bunch of Canadian motherfuckers pointing motherfucking machine guns at me. Their cars spill into the alleyway behind me.

"Put your hands in the air!"

I whirl and run. Bullets spew behind me. Something slams into my right leg, but panic has already flooded through me and scoured away any possibility of pain. I slip into the shadows, my breath heaving in and out of my lungs, every inhale a struggle. I creep behind a dumpster. The police officers race past, yelling, "Where'd he go?"

"Fucking . . . cocksuckers," I wheeze out, to no one.

I grip at my wounded leg automatically. Blood stains my already shredded pants and soaks between my fingers.

I curse in five different languages while I yank my first-aid kit out of my backpack. My fingers tremble but I grit my teeth and wrap a length of gauze around the wound. It still hurts like fucking hell but I don't have any other choice. I can stay here and eventually be caught and taken back to Yardale, or I can run.

I've never been one to give up. _Viva la resistance_, right?

I crawl to my feet and stagger down the alley. I use my shovel as a support. _Clang, clang, clang_ as it hits the pavement.

A train station looms in front of me. Fucking excellent. I comb my hair out my eyes to semi-hide my appearance. Needn't have bothered – the guy selling the tickets is stoned out of his mind.

I buy tickets on the first train to leave and barely manage to board in time. I slouch back in one of the seats and lean my head against the wall. I think I'm going to Denver, although I'm not sure.

A smile crosses my lips. Denver. Colorado. _South Park_.

Been a long time since I was "home."

My leg hurts like hell. The bleeding has mostly stopped, although every few minutes a sluggish clump of crimson oozes from the wound, staining the gauze red. I have to take the bullet out, but I can't do it on the train.

I shift my shovel around to my stomach so I can lean back and close my eyes. It is incredibly dangerous to sleep right now. Anyone can see me and recognize me. Gregory could be staking the train out this very second.

Ah, hell. I'm tired. At this moment, I don't fucking care.

XXX

I stumble off the train at about five PM. Dusky sky swirls around me. It's snowing. It's always snowing in Colorado. I shiver in my thin t-shirt and ripped pants.

Then I lurch to the closest alley, hide behind a dumpster, and proceed to rip out the bullet in my leg with my pocketknife. For the record, I only scream twice.

Blood gushes around my finger. Panic churns in my stomach. I slap more layers of gauze over the wound. The energy ebbs from my body. I close my eyes.

Somehow, the bleeding stops, and I'm left in the middle of Denver, Colorado, with only two packs of cigarettes left.

I smoke four cigarettes while I sit there, too tired to haul my ass up. Then it starts to snow. _Shit!_ It's September_! Shit! _

Footsteps echo down the alleyway.

I open my eyes. A teenager about my age stares back down at me. I can tell even from sitting down that he's a lot taller than me, but skinnier. His hair and clothing is black. He draws on a cigarette and inhales the smoke in my face.

I watch him with narrowed, wary eyes, pull my last cigarette from the pack, and struggle to light it with trembly fingers. I should probably eat something, but I don't have the food on me or the willpower to go buy some.

"I thought I'd sensed another one," he says casually. "But I didn't realize you were so injured. Or a kid."

My eyes widen, then narrow again. I grit my teeth and glare at him. "What ze 'ell do you want, cocksucker?"

He smirks. "Nothing in particular. I _was _going to kill you, but seeing as I doubt you're an Angel, I think I'll leave you to your injuries."

"Angel? Why would you zink I was an angel?"

He rolls his eyes. "You're not doing a very good job of suppressing your magic, you know. If you want to bullshit me you're going to have to come up with a better lie than that."

I digest this for a few seconds, then say, "I'm not successfully repressing?"

He shakes his head with a grin. "Nope. I can smell you from two miles away. This is my territory, by the way, and I don't take well to unwelcomed visitors."

"My apologies," I mutter under my breath. The damn cigarette refuses to light. So I'm not repressing my magic well. No wonder it's been so easy for Gregory to trail me for the last ten years.

"What are you, zen? Because I do not smell any magic from you."

"Unlike you, I can actually repress decently."

"Fuck you."

"I don't go for the short types."

I glower at him. His smirk only grows.

"So what are you? You can't be an angel, unless they suddenly developed red blood instead of blue. But you smell exactly like one."

I groan. "Fuck ze fucking fucker who gave me zis fucking fucked-up magic!" My wound hurts like hell. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ FUCK!" The last expletive turns into a scream and I growl in pain before managing to bite down on the agony.

"You mean God." His eyebrows arch together.

"Yes, I mean zat faggot."

The cigarette slips from my fingers. I fumble for it, but the teenager in front of me, sighs, picks it up, and pulls out his own lighter to light it up with.

"Here." He pushes it between my lips for me. For some reason, I flush red.

I shiver uncontrollably as I smoke. The teenager just looks at me for a few seconds.

"So, what are you?"

"Fuck you," I mutter again. I take a long drag on my cigarette and lean back against the wall. I know I'm probably killing my lungs by smoking half a pack in less than an hour, but I've always been certain that even if I do get lung cancer, I'm much more likely to get axed in the head by one of the bitches at Yardale.

"You're not an angel because you're bleeding red. But you also happen to have an enormous amount of heavenly magic, which means you must somehow be an agent of God."

"I do not work for zat cocksucker!" I sit straight up and glare at him. "Never 'ave, never will!"

"That's probably why you're not using your magic to heal your wound." He ignores my anger.

_That and I have no idea how to use it._ "I've had much worse. It was only in my leg."

"Yet you're still bleeding out."

"What do you want, 'ellspawn?" I spit out.

He arches an eyebrow, but doesn't comment on my accusation. It really wasn't too difficult to figure out. He speaks of God with indifference, yet he also claims to possess magic. There's only one other place he'd acquire such power. I wonder idly if he's a demon or something much worse.

"I'm mostly curious. Usually when I encounter heavenfilth, I kill them. But you're of heaven and you're not. So what are you?"

"I'm 'uman." I lean back again. The blood loss and fatigue suddenly swamps me and my vision blurs. The frost clings to my legs and the snow flakes flock to my clothes and powder my bare arms.

"Go away, asshole." I mutter.

"Aw, you're about to pass out, aren't you?" he groans.

I hate to prove him right.

**Come on. Review. You know you want to. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the reviews I got! Here's chapter two. **

**Edit: I've fixed a ton of stupid typos. I should really read my chapters more than once before I post them. **

Six-year-old Christophe wakes up with a tiny Hispanic girl slumped next to him. Another little boy is curled around Christophe's feet. And the blond boy named Gregory sleeps with his head leaning on Christophe's shoulder.

Christophe panics for a second, but manages not to jerk to his feet and wake the other children. His back is pressed up against a metal wall. He feels vibrations and movement, and remembers clambering into a truck the night before. He also remembers the dying screams of the children from the night before. His clothes are still spattered with blood.

On the other side of the truck, a gang of five little boys stares back at him. They have obviously been watching the other four children.

Thrown in the back of the truck is the beaten and bruised body of the second little girl. Christophe blanches. The second little girl is moaning, curled into a little ball. Her arm twists in awkward angles and unnatural joints. Tears pour down her cheeks.

"Did you five do zat to her?" he whispers.

The leader of the five boys nods. "That's me _hermanita_. Sister." He points to the Hispanic girl leaning against Christophe. "You should give her to us."

"Why?"

"Because."

Christophe shakes the Hispanic girl awake. The other two children leaning against him wake with the motion. The four children huddle in a circle and glance at the gang of five boys as they talk.

"'E says you're 'is sister."

She nods, "_Si. Es mi hermano mejor. _He's my older brother_." _

"I zink zey beat up zat ozzer little girl. I don't know if she is all right."

She nods. "He is also fucking insane. He has been beating me for as long as I can remember."

"He wants you."

"Fuck him."

The four of them turn to look at the five little boys. Neither of them realize it, but they have automatically formed gangs.

"I am Gregory," Gregory says.

"Maria." The Hispanic girl narrows her eyes. "My brother is Jorge."

"Chase." The other little boy hugs himself and shivers. He's American.

Christophe introduces himself. The four are silent for a moment.

"We can't just fight with them," Gregory says finally. Christophe distrusts him almost instinctively. Not just because he's English and Englishmen are all fucking fags; also because he remembers the conversation Gregory had with the man with the suit last night.

"_And what do you think of all this?"_

"_I'm thinking there has to be a more efficient way to do this."_

Dangerous. This Gregory kid is dangerous.

"Zere's more of zem, and one of us is a girl," Christophe says, thinking out loud.

"Hey!"

"Girls are easier to beat up, I've done it often. I'm just saying – you're tiny and not much of a zreat."

"You want to-"

"There is no use arguing," Gregory cuts in. Christophe and Maria shut up, although they continue to glare at each other.

"We'll reason with them." And with that, Gregory turns to the gang of five boys. Jorge stands defiantly, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. The little girl in the corner moans.

"_Maricón! _What the hell did you beat her up for?" Maria screams at her brother.

Jorge shrugs. "She was breathing my air. She was being a cunt, like girls always are. Come over here, _puta_. It's time for me to teach you a lesson."

"Fuck you!"

"Get over here, Maria!"

The other little boys laugh.

Gregory sighs and crosses his arms. "I would prefer you not use such crude language around a lady," he informs Jorge. "I would also prefer you not hit a lady. It was a very ungentlemanly thing to do."

Jorge calls Gregory something rude concerning his sexuality and his nationality, which makes Christophe stomp forward, his teeth gnashed together. _Oui,_ he's been thinking the same thing about the English boy, but Gregory is one of _his,_ not Jorge's. Gregory and Maria and Chase are _his._

He won't voice this sentiment out loud for several months, but he knows it, deep down, as well as he knows anything. He's seen children die in the past few hours. He's been ripped away from his scumbag family and heard his own brother scream for God as his throat was slit. Right now it doesn't matter who the other three children are, it doesn't matter that one is a girl, one is a wimp, and one is a distrustful English freak. They're _his_ right now. That's all that matters.

And thus the course of Christophe's life is determined by whom he happened to sleep next to.

He balls his fists in preparation for a fight, but then the truck screeches to a halt, throwing all of the boys off their feet.

The door rolls up and open. Christophe scrabbles to his feet and stands protectively in front of the other three. Bright light almost blinds him, and he has to blink through it to make out the people out in the world beyond the truck.

The man in the suit, still flanked by several guards.

"Welcome to hell," the man says.

XXX

I wake up with the smell of bacon frying. My stomach rumbles. I think it's been two, maybe three days since I've eaten, and I can't stop the saliva from pouring into my mouth. Every muscle aches, but someone has draped a thick blanket over me.

I sit up, joints popping. A yawn rips from my mouth and I stretch, trying to work the remnants of sleep from my body. I glance around the room.

. . . wait, room?

I jolt to my feet, then trip and hit the carpet. My knee bangs against the coffee table in front of me. My right calf shoots pain through my entire body. Still wounded. Bandaged. Where the hell am I?

The last thing I remember is talking to that hellspawn with the cigarettes and then passing out-

"You're awake!"

A boy with longish blond hair and a strong English accent pops into the living room, holding a spatula. I stare at him, and he smiles back at me. He has much the same description as Gregory – English, pretty, blond – but he's like the opposite person. I doubt this boy could ever scheme to kill five other little boys.

He's not really a boy, though, more like a teenager. My age.

"Who ze 'ell are you?"

He starts to respond, then another voice from the kitchen calls, "Leave him alone."

This voice is familiar. Very familiar indeed. Another teenager saunters into the living room. His green ushanka slips over his red mass of hair. His brown-eyed gaze locks with my black one.

"Don't pick on Pip, mole," he says. "He's too much of a moron to know what to do."

"Broflovski." I set myself back on the couch I'd been sleeping on. It's been nine years, but I know Kyle's the decent sort, although if Gregory came knocking on the door looking for me he wouldn't hesitate to let him in. It's not his fault he doesn't know, though – not like I'm going to tell anyone.

"Been a long time, mole."

"Why ze 'ell does everyone 'ave to call me zat?" I grumble. After Gregory told my mother it was my nickname back when we were eight, even _she_ called me that for a little while (until I ran away, of course). It was just another one of Gregory's painful ways of reminding me of my past. Bitch.

"Fine. Christophe." His gaze flicks over me. "You look like shit. How was dying?"

"Lovely," I say. "I went to 'ell for the few minutes eet lasted." No surprises there.

"Really? What was it like?"

"If you are so curious, why don't you just ask your friend? Ze leettle blond one who iz always dying? I believe 'e goes there all ze time."

"He won't tell us. And you're not really one to call him little."

"So you finally remember 'is deaths. Zat is good. 'E was worried about it."

"So you know Kenny?""

"I met 'im while I was in 'ell, before Satan came up to ze earth. We talked a bit." I pull my knees up to my chest. "But you are avoiding ze question. What am I doing 'ere?"

Kyle sighs. "Pip, you wanna tell him?"

"Sure thing!" Pip, who has ducked back into the kitchen, swoops back into the living room. "I found you on my doorstep with this note this morning. Don't know what you were doing there – all I have is this note."

He hands me a piece of notebook paper and retreats back into the kitchen.

_Pip-_

_ This guy is injured, and I think the wound is infected. He can heal it himself if he stops being an idiot about it. _

_ Don't trust him. He's got magic and he's smarter than he seems. _

_ Love,_

_ -Your favorite hellspawn._

"Zat cocksucker," I mutter. _Smarter than I seem? _

"Do you know who took you here?"

I narrow my eyes at Kyle. "I would zink zat Pip would know betaire zan me. It seems whoever took me 'ere has some affection for 'im."

"Pip says he doesn't know who it is, says he doesn't know any 'Hellspawn.'"

"Well, I do not know 'im, ozzer zan zat 'e dressed all in black and smoked cigarettes." I shake my head and scoff.

"What's this about you having magic?"

I look up at him sharply. "I do not know what 'e was talking about."

"That's bullshit, mole."

"Do not call me zat!" I clench my fists. "Why are you 'ere, Broflovski?"

"Pip called Stan, asking for help, so Stan got the gang together."

"Ze gang?" I eye him. "You mean you, ze fat boy, Stan, and Kenny."

"Yeah, and Butters."

I don't know "butters" but I decide it's irrelevant. "So where are they?"

"Upstairs. We kind of have some other things going on, so Cartman's doing a google search to figure out how to kill dragons while the others make the Celebrity-converter." He winces. "Sorry, that probably doesn't make any sense at all."

"No. No, it doesn't." I remember all the crazy shit that happened during the eight short months I lived in South Park.

"You're still avoiding MY question, Christophe." Kyle slouches against the wall and crosses his arms. "What's this about magic?"

I scoff. "Magic does not exeest."

"It's South Park. Everything exists." I remember the determined expression he wears now from our time as La Resistance.

I start to snap back a bullshitted lie when I catch a whiff of something dark. I freeze, and inhale again. Kyle raises an eyebrow and watches me. The scent floods my lungs. My fingers clench.

I can't believe I didn't smell this before.

It makes sense I wouldn't notice it back when I was a kid – I was too young back then to even sense magic, much less smell it – but now the reek of death is unmistakable.

"You're a 'ellspawn."

Kyle blanches. "What the hell is that?"

"You're of 'ell. You have 'ellish powers, 'ellish magic. No wonder you're so curious about mine. And I thought you were the good sort." I laugh. "Well, who am I to say anyone's ze good sort?" I sniff again. "And that boy Pip – he's a 'eavenfilth." My eyes narrow. I trust the heavenfilth about as much as I trust the hellspawn.

I stagger to my feet. My bullet wound screams but I ignore it. I'm wearing a flannel t-shirt and jeans, but I'm not concerned about my clothes right now, I'm concerned about my gear. "Where the 'ell is my fucking shovel?"

"Christophe, I have no idea what you're talking about."

I stare at him. He's telling the truth. "You really don't know?"

He shakes his head.

"For the record, I don't either!" the English boy pipes in, sticking his head through the doorway. "Your bacon's almost ready, mole!"

"Don't call me zat," I hiss, but the fight has drained from me. I collapse back to the couch, my wound throbbing. "You really don't know."

Kyle raises his eyebrows.

"Son of a _beetch_."

"You have a lot of explaining to do."

XXX

When I've eaten my breakfast (bacon, waffles, eggs, and coffee, all expertly prepared by Pip) and I have a cigarette smoking between my fingers, I lean back against the couch and appraise the six boys in front of me.

Butters is a slim blond boy wrapped in duct tape for no apparent reason, although from Cartman's mutterings it's got something to do with dragon-slaying. I don't recognize him, but then, I barely knew anyone from South Park. I went to a private Catholic school for the eight months I lived in this fucked-up town, much to my dismay. I just remember the sense of camaraderie I felt when I agreed to help La Resistance, a feeling of friendship I hadn't tasted since I escaped the Yardale School.

Kenny is almost six feet tall, but skinny, made of skin, bones, and lean muscle. He's swapped the orange parka for an orange hoodie.

Cartman is even taller than Kenny, but they're almost exact opposites. I remember an obese eight-year-old, but this Cartman is muscular and solid. Still a fat bastard, though. He's wearing a t-shirt with a swastika on it, and he glowers on me, his fingers tapping his jeans while he waits. I suck on my cigarette before turning my attention to Stan and Kyle.

Stan and Kyle are the two boys I remember most from my eight months and South Park, even though I only knew them both for barest hours. Stan is about five ten and more muscular, wearing a letterman jacket, but other than that he hasn't changed much. Same exasperated posture – leaning back arms crossed, toes tapping the carpet-covered floor. Same what-the-hell look.

Kyle got the short end of the growth stick. He's the shortest of the South Park boys, other than Pip (still taller than me, though – it hurts to admit, but I'm shorter than Pip's '5' "5" by two inches). He's lean and muscular, like Kenny. If I had a sexual attraction to either gender, I would find him rather cute. I don't, though, so instead I recognize the moral gleam in his eyes, the chewed lip.

Kyle and Stan are very obviously gay for each other and in denial. They sit close enough that their hips touch, and their hands are clenched at their sides as if they're physically restraining themselves from touching each other. I glance at Cartman, and our gazes lock. I flick my gaze back to Kyle and Stan, and Cartman smirks. I can tell what he's thinking: _Too easy, too easy. _

I finish my cigarette and snub it out on the coffee table. Kyle changed my bandage before I started eating, a painful experience I have felt a hundred times before. When you're a freelance mercenary, bullet wounds are an occupational hazard.

I take all five of them in again. Pip huddles in the corner of the living room, staying as far away as possible from them, even though it's his house. It's clear to see why. The hellspawn hate us heavenfilth and actively try to kill us, while us heavenfilth are desperately afraid of them.

And that's what these boys are. Butters, Kenny, Kyle, and Cartman. They're all hellspawn, although I admit it doesn't seem that any of them have been activated yet. Neither has Pip. To be fair, I haven't "activated" either, although Gregory, Maria and Chase most likely have by now. I just know about my powers; I've never been able to control or use them.

"I 'ave a suspicion," I say out loud. "Zat your entire town is 'ell-allied."

They all jump at my voice. I've been examining them for ten minutes.

"I've been trying to make out ze scents of your town," I continue on. "And I can come to no ozzer conclusion."

"Wait, wait, wait," Kyle says. "Hell-allied? What the fuck does that mean?"

I sigh and wonder how much of an explanation I can give without giving them information about myself. It's not that I care if they personally know, I just don't want them to know anything that could help Gregory.

"'Eaven and 'ell 'ave been at war for zousands of years." I slurp on my lukewarm coffee. "Earth is default 'eaven-allied. Zat means if zere is randomly a war between Satan and Jesus, zey will always try to 'elp Jesus to win."

"But, wait," Stan says. "This one time Jesus and Satan were fighting in our town-" Only in South Park. "And everyone voted for Satan to win, because they wanted money."

"Yes. Zis is because South Park is 'ell-allied."

"How?" Kenny cuts in, his blue eyes dark. He crosses his arms and yawns. "How the hell is this even possible?"

It's nice to understand his voice.

"Zat cocksucking fag God-"

Butters winces, which I take to mean otherwise a) he's pussy who can't stand swearing, b) he's deeply religious, or c) he's gay, which would make sense. Because this town is hell-allied, kids in South Park are just as likely to grow up to be gay as they are to grow up to be straight. Homosexuality is hellish, apparently. (Therefore, all straight guys will find paradise in hell; I've been there and it's brimming with lesbians). I don't personally think it matters whether something is hellish or celestial; I've met both Satan and God, and trust me, they are both cocksucking assholes.

"God 'as ze ability to create celestial energy on earth, which makes ze earth 'eaven-allied. But Satan also 'as ze ability, and it's likely 'e focused 'is energy on South Park to make it 'ell-allied."

"Does that mean we're the bad guys?" Butters asks, white-faced and terrified. "Aw, shucks, I don't want to be one of the bad guys!"

"Not necessarily. I 'ave encountered jackasses from both 'eaven and 'ell. I would say both sides are equal in zere morality."

Kyle winces. "I feel so blasphemous right now."

"It ees strange you even care. You should 'ate god with a burning passion. I suspect ze five of you being 'ellspawn gives you ze ability to zink for yourselves, although you will eventually ally with Satan and you only cling to your Judaism out of ill-founded belief, influenced by your parents."

"I don't want to be this hellspawn thing and worship Satan." Kyle looks freaked out.

"Be tough to stand up to our Jew bitch of a mother, wouldn't it be, Kahl?" Cartman mocks.

"Shut up, fatass!" Kyle snaps.

"Both of you shut eet," I hiss. "Kyle, just because you are 'ellspawn does not mean you 'ave to worship Satan. Look at me. I'm 'eavenfilth and I absolutely 'ate God, because 'e is a cocksucking asshole who makes my life miserable."

Kyle and Stan glance at each other and grin.

"So . . . what does this hellspawn thing . . . mean?" Kenny asks cautiously. "Is that why I can never die?"

"No, I don't zink so. I don't zink 'ellspawn 'ave zat sort of power. It must be something else."

Kenny groans.

"It means," I continue, sort of answering his questions. "Zat you 'ave dark, magical powers of 'ell, the same way I 'ave ze white magic of 'eaven because I am 'eavenfilth. I do not know 'ow to use my powers, the same way you probably do not know 'ow to use yours."

"We have magical powers? That's fucking awesome!" Cartman yells. I glower at him, he glares back, and then I snort and continue.

"If you use your powers, zough, I believe you will be more and more drawn towards Satan. Zat's why I almost never use mine, not zat I try to anyway, usually it just happens, but zey do come out when I dig. I do not want to be allied with 'eaven or 'ell."

"Why us?" Kyle asks. "Why are we this 'hellspawn' thing?"

I shrug. "It takes a lot of energy to make a 'ellspawn or an 'eavenfilth from a 'uman. Most 'ellspawn are demons, and most 'eavenfilth are angels, although zere are exceptions – all of us being example number one. Satan would 'ave 'ad to essentially feed you bits of 'is soul every day for several months to turn you from 'uman to 'ellspawn. Once 'e succeeded, zough . . . you five are very powerful, you just don't know how to use your powers."

"Was it the same for you?" Kenny asks. "Except with God's soul – ah, that's too squicky to think about."

I nod. "_Oui_, back when I 'as six."

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"I went to a special school back when I 'as a child." I spit out the words with bitterness. "A special school my mozzere and fazzer sold me to for two million U.S. dollaires. Zey taught me zese zings about 'eaven and 'ell, as well as 'ow to fight demons and ozzer 'ellspawn. Zey trained us 'eavenfilth-turned-'umans to be part of God's army when the great war comes. I escaped when I 'as seven, and I 'ave been running from zem ever since."

They all stare at me. Finally, Stan says, "Dude, that's fucked up."

"Essn't it," I say. I gulp down the last of my coffee. My shovel and rope lie next to me, and I've changed back into my old clothes, which Pip washed for me while I slept. I should probably get out of here, although I doubt I have much to fear from these five (except maybe Cartman). They might be hellspawn, but they're yet unawakened and they have enough intelligence and moral boundaries to avoid hurting me, which is why Cartman is the only one I'm wary of.

I need to leave before Gregory can track me down. It shouldn't be too hard for him to figure out I took a train to Denver, and from there it's easy to deduce our old home of South Park.

"What about me?" Pip pipes up. "You said something about me being heavenly-"

I shrug. "I 'onestly don't know why you're in South Park and still one of the 'eavenfilth, or even 'eaven-allied. 'ave you been bullied by ze ozzer children? They would most likely not like you. 'Eavenfilth and 'ellspawn are not fond of each ozzer."

"Oh!" he says, and his eyes go wide.

"I 'ope I 'ave answered all your questions." I start winding my rope around my arm. "But I 'ave to get going. I am on ze run from the Yardale school. I do not want to be 'ere when ze connect me to Pip."

"Yardale," Stan says. I see the gears click in his brain. "That's kind of familiar."

"I would guess so," I say dryly. "I 'ave to get out of 'ere."

Kyle surprises me by grabbing my arm. "No, dude, you can't, you're still injured, and the guy who took you here is probably right. I think your wound's infected."

I shrug. "I've 'ad worse."

"Seriously, dude, just stay here." Stan stands up and stretches. "We've got to deal with the dragons-celebrity-things, but once we come back, can you maybe explain more stuff to us?"

"I 'ave told you all you need to know."

"Come on," Kenny says. "We can maybe even help you find the guy who took you here."

I pause. I do want to give that cocksucker a piece of my mind-

"Fine," I say warily, meeting each of their gazes. "But only until my wound' is healed."

"Sweet!" Stan says. "Hey, Pip, can you watch him until we get back? We'll move him to my house later."

"Sure thing." Pip stares at me with round eyes. I glower back at him, but he smiles tentatively, otherwise unaffected.

"See you soon, Christophe!"

And then the five hellspawn bound out the door.

**Please point out any stupid typos or canonical mistakes I made.**

**Yes, I had OCs in this chapter. Oh nooooooooooo.**

**There was no Damien, either. Don't worry – we see him a lot more in the next chapter. _-**

**Feel free to leave a review ~**

**Liz out **


	3. Chapter 3

** Oh, jeez. I wrote chapter three over the past five days, and then I realized it was over fifty pages long and there was no way I could upload a fifty-page-long chapter. So I broke it into thirds. This is the first part of chapter three. The second part should be up tomorrow night at the latest – if I forget, PM me until I relent and post it.**

** By the way, this chapter is a bit bloodier than the last few chapters, and it's only going to get worse. Enjoy!**

Jorge's victim takes the longest to stumble off the bus. Christophe watches as her knees hit the earth. She moans and clutches her hands against her stomach.

The man in the suit clucks sympathetically, and then addresses the children.

"Now, we do believe we've chosen you well for your specific task, but we will need to continuously test you to make sure you're of the right state of mind to survive."

The man in the suit reads out loud from a manila folder. Christophe tunes him out and glances at his surroundings.

They're standing in front of a huge brick school. The building towers high above him, so high he has to crane his neck to see the rough. They stand in the driveway, a long thin road he can tell stretches half a mile to the highway. Metal gates are closed behind the eighteen-wheeler truck, trapping them inside the school grounds.

He can see trees behind the school, still within the school grounds. He wonders vaguely how much property these people own, then realizes he doesn't care.

Everything smells like pine. He wrinkles his nose. He's used to city scents, not wide-open forest ones.

"So," the man in the suit says, "to test you for mental . . . toughness, we are going to perform a slight test on the ten of you."

"Fuck you, cocksucker," Christophe snaps, just because he fucking can.

The man in the suit raises an eyebrow. "Ah, you're the one with the bite. I expect you to be entertaining." He smiles, which makes Christophe dissolve into shouting expletives.

"Guards! You may do whatever you want for half an hour. Make sure it's bloody." And with that the man in the suit turns and walks into the school.

XXX

The guards start to walk towards the kids. They smirk, raising their semi-automatic guns.

Christophe clenches his fist and holds them up, trying to be threatening.

Someone grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him to the ground. A shot cracks out over his head. He tries to push the person away, but their fingers tangle in his collar and he's dragged behind the truck.

It was Maria. She swears at him in Spanish, but he ignores her and leaps to his feet. All of the other children are already huddled around behind the truck.

One of the guards swears from other side. Then they circle around the truck. They have the children in point blank-range.

Gunfire. One of Jorge's boys screams. Then instinct kicks in and Christophe takes off, running as fast as he can. Maria's clenching the sleeve of his shirt and he has Chase's fingers gripped in his right hand. He hears more little boys scream behind them, but his heart pounds in his chest and he sprints forward. Gregory runs ahead of him.

The four of them duck into the trees and stop running after a minute of frantic sprinting. Christophe leans over, sucking in air, and suddenly the world snaps back into place. He can hear correctly again, see clearly again.

"Injured," Gregory is saying. "It is not serious, but it will need to be treated to keep from being infected-"

He realizes blood stains Gregory's shirt and leaks from a wound on his shoulder.

Christophe sucks in a breath and forces himself to focus. Far away, gunfire. Screaming. Soldiers' laughs. Around them, forest. Trees shield them, creating a false sense of comfort. Chase leans against a tree, panting, eyes wide. Maria's fists are clenched and she breaths through strained teeth. Gregory doesn't seem to care about his injury.

"If the Leader-"

"Ze man in ze suit?" Christophe interrupts.

"Yes. He is control here, obviously, although he is not the mastermind behind all of this." Gregory keeps gripping his shoulder while talks, blood dribbling past his fingers. "If he was speaking honestly, then we have about half an hour to evade those sick guards while they do whatever they want with us."

"Those bastards!" Maria's face is pale with fear. "We should-"

"We should make sure their interest stays with Jorge's gang. As long as they have easier prey, they will not turn to us."

Christophe stares at him. "Are you fucking serious? Trying to get ze soldiers to-"

"We've already left them. They're as good as dead. If we can get their deaths to serve us, all the better." Gregory's breath is strained.

_I was right,_ Christophe decides. _Gregory is a sick fuck, but practical. He doesn't care about anyone but himself._

"Chase-" Gregory starts to continue, and then three of Jorge's gang sprint past them, screaming. One of them is coated in blood that doesn't appear to be his own.

Soldiers follow them. One of them makes a grab at Chase, but Christophe lets out a yell and slams into him, aiming his fists into the man's stomach and-

XXX

As soon as the hellspawn leave, I turn to Pip and say, "Allright, tell ze truth."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Pip says, heading back into the kitchen to clean up from breakfast (or brunch – I have no idea what time it is). His hands shake as he washes dishes. From my sitting-up position I can peer into the kitchen and see that he's lying.

"You know 'im," I say. "Zis 'ellspawn. The one who took me 'ere."

He turns back to me, mouth open to argue, then stops when he sees my narrowed eyes and scowl. His longish blond hair falls in a wave over his eyes.

"Okay," he says. "So I do know him."

"Why deed you lie?"

He shifts, squirms under my gaze. "He's . . . I don't know. He knows me, sort of."

"Why deed 'e say 'e's your 'favorite 'ellpsawn'?"

He shrugs and leans back against the again. "He's been . . . I don't know what you would call it. He went to our school back when we were really little, I think . . . huh, I guess it was about six months before La Resistance . . . "

I never met any of them because of that stupid catholic school my mother sent me to. Goddamn mother.

"I don't think he's like the other hellspawn. He's the son of Satan."

I slouch forward on the couch. "And 'e says 'e's your favorite 'ellspawn."

Pip nods.

"Ze son of Satan, so essentially ze worst of all ze 'ellspawn, is friends with a 'eavenfilth?"

"We're not friends!" Pip cuts in, then stops. "Wait . . . maybe we are . . . " his voice trails off. "We haven't spoken much since that time in elementary school when he killed me . . . um . . . I don't think he meant anything by that . . . every once in a while he'll show up on my doorstep and ask me how I'm doing . . . he's told me about all this hellspawn stuff before . . ."

"E sounds like a cocksucking jackass."

"He's a nice guy," Pip says defensively, then smiles. "For the son of Satan."

I smirk along with him.

"But he told me about the whole hellspawn want to kill heavenfilth thing. He's never killed me because he makes sure to not spend much time with me. But . . ."

"I was covered een blood and an easy prey," I muse. "Mm. Maybe 'e's castrated?" My comment makes Pip laugh.

"Allright. I will take what you say. But now I am curious about zis guy." I slouch back against the couch. "What 'as 'is name?"

"Damien."

I think back to the teenager wearing black. It fits him strangely well.

"Can you please . . . " Pip hesitates. "Please don't tell anyone that my only friend is a hellspawn. Not only will the other children poorly of me for it, but it is also quite dangerous, considering he is the son of Satan. Knowing Stan and Kyle, they will want to do something about it, I don't know what. And he's not a bad person, no matter what he is or what he does.

I shrug. "Fine by me." I lean back against the couch. "Can you get me a cigarette?"

XXX

_Everything is quiet. Everything is dark. It's just the way he likes it, because under the ground and in the clutches of the earth nothing can touch him._

_His shovel moves with rhythm. Scoop. Haul. Push. Fling. Repeat. Earth presses against his flesh, surrounding him, comforting him._

_Peace. Nothing can touch him. Peace below the earth. _

_Then, noise. Barking. He knows it's just a dream at this point (this is nothing like how it happened in real life) but he can't help but turning to see the guard dogs shoving their way into his tunnel, light pouring around them, revealing their sharp teeth and glinting yellow eyes._

_He screams and tries to dig faster, escape the sanctuary that has become his hell. It's too late, he can't use his magic very well yet, can't dig fast enough. They're on him in a flash, ripping at his skin and chewing on tendons and-_

XXX

The mole wakes up, gasping, clenching the sheets. He closes his eyes and forces himself to calm down. His leg aches when he laces up his combat boots and swings himself off the bed, but he ignores the twinge, it's not something he has to deal with at this point.

His fingers curl around his shovel and he slides it into the leather strap on his back. His rope, too, goes around his shoulder. It's not wise to go without his gear. He doesn't make that mistake any more.

Everything feels distant and dead, but the mole doesn't care about that sort of thing, he just wants what he needs and he wants it now. He limps down to Kyle Broflovski's bedroom (he was moved to Broflovski's house the night before, the hellspawn deciding it would be better for him to stay with them than stay with the heavenfilth. Not a wise decision on their part, but the mole knows Broflovski is the moral-guided sort).

He lets himself in without knocking. The clock on the dresser proclaims the time, 3: 17. He shakes Broflovski awake. Broflovski's eyes open with a start.

"What is it?" Broflovski mutters.

"'_ou are un 'ackeirre, oui?"_ The mole's accent is so thick it's difficult to comprehend.

"It's like three in the morning."

"I need 'ou to do somezing for me."

"What is it, Christophe?" Broflovski demands, and then suddenly my senses snap back and I stare down at him.

"'Tophe? Hello? What's going on?"

I give a start and shake my head. Suddenly my leg hurts like hell. "Ah . . . I need your 'elp. You are a 'acker, oui?"

"Yeah, I guess you could call me that." He rolls off his bed and hits the ground. Groaning, he staggers to his feet. "Why do you need me at three in the morning?"

"I want to make sure it is safe for me to stay 'ere."

"'Kay, fine," he mutters, pulling his laptop out from under his pillow. I stare at him. I wasn't expecting that. The eight year old in me thinks_ god, what a nerd._

He types in the password, unlocking his PC from sleep. I'm decently good with a computer – I can program my own mac to do mostly whatever I want – but I remember Kyle being more than superb.

"So what do you want?"

"I want to access someone's computer."

"Ooooookay. That's gonna be a tricky one if I don't even have a name."

"'is email address is 7 dot 4 dot emx at gmail," I say.

"Okay, that's helpful."

I don't bother to look over his shoulder as he types. I probably wouldn't understand it, anyway.

"Okay, I'm sending him a Trojan horse," he says. "As soon as he opens the email it should infect his computer and give me the contents of his hard drive. Um, do you think I should disguise it as a porn adver or –"

"In ze subject say it's from ze mole."

"I thought you hated that name."

". . . I do."

" . . . then?"

"Just do it," the mole snaps. Broflovski shrugs and sends the email.

"It's three seventeen in the morning, it might be a while before he opens it." He yawns.

"It ees six seventeen where I zink 'e ees. I zink 'e will be on, particularly because 'e is frustrated at not finding me."

"Who is this guy, anyway?"

The mole shrugs, which makes Broflovski scowl, then turn back to his laptop.

"Ah! He opened it, you were right!" He grins and starts to type. "Come on . . . come on . . . download . . . nice, I've got his hard drive. Okay, what do you want?"

"I want to see if 'e 'as information on my 'erabouts." The mole sits down next to Broflovski.

"Sure . . . one sec . . . he's got a bunch of folders on his hard drive. He shouldn't know I'm in here, hopefully. Here . . . this is an images folder . . . "

The mole leans over his shoulder and watches as Broflovski scans through the image folder, which contains about twenty different folders. They are marked "crime scenes" "angels and demons" "random junk" "powers" "Yardale" then finally, "people."

"Zat one," he orders, pointing. Kyle clicks on it. There are even more folders in the "people" folder. Gregory has always been far too organized. "Suspects" "Defeated" "Profiles" "Friends" –

The mole gets a sickening, twisted feeling in his gut, but he directs Broflovski to open the Friends folder. There are three folders inside.

Maria Martinez. Chase Williamson. And Christophe Simon.

I suck in a deep breath as I see Maria and Chase's names next to mine. So Gregory and I are friends? Since when? I need a fucking cigarette.

Kyle doesn't even wait for my directions, just looks into my folder. Six folders. One "before" one "six" one "injured" one "seven" one "eight" and one "after."

"Huh. Why doesn't he have any of you after you were eight . . . hey, 'Tophe, who's computer is this, anyway?"

"Ees not important," the mole snaps. "See if 'e knows 'ere I am right now. It will not be under ze images file."

Broflovski maneuvers around Gregory's drive until he finds a folder marked "Christophe Whereabouts." He scans through a log until he finds one marked for the day before.

"C's is arrested by Vancouver police, but escapes using his digging magic," he reads allowed, "according to several eyewitnesses he appeared to sink into the ground out of nowhere. He must be getting better at using his magic."

The mole scoffs. Magic. Fuck magic.

"One of the police reports shooting him in the leg. Blood found at crime scene confirms it. C appears to have disappeared after that. No known whereabouts, but I suspect he may have caught a train– jesus, 'Tophe, this guy is fucking stalking you! Why don't you go to the police?"

The mole ignores him and reads through the diary entry for himself. He reads the diary entry above it, too, from a week ago. The English fag has proved the mole's paranoia correct.

"'Tophe?" Bloflovski asks. He grabs his sleeve, but the mole ignores him. "'Tophe, what's wrong?"

The mole grabs the laptop from him and continues reading the diary entry.

"You're not Christophe," Broflovski says after a few seconds.

The mole smirks as he reads, but doesn't draw his attention away from the screen. "What 'as your first clue?"

"Christophe at least looks at me when I speak. He's not a _total_ douchebag." He touches the mole' arm. "What's wrong? What the hell is happening? Who is this stalker creep? And what the fuck is wrong with you, Christophe . . . whoever you are."

The mole raises his eyebrows and finally looks at him. "Can 'ou delete zese files? All of zem. I want all of 'is files gone. If zat ees not possible, at least ze files concerning moi."

"Fuck." Broflovski snatches the laptop back and glares at the mole. "Christophe! I know you're in there! Stop being such a douche! You have to help me, you have to help us, you have to help us now! Didn't we promise to never give up, back during La Resistance?"

The mole and him stare at each other for a few seconds. Finally, _I_ laugh. "Eet's not giving up," I say. "I don't know why I do it."

The expression on Kyle's face morphs into concern. "'Tophe . . ."

"I am not crazy, I promise. Sometimes I'm just not me . . . I'm 'im . . . " I shake my head. "But I really do want zose files deleted. And I need a smoke." I stand up. "Can you do zat for me?"

He nods, his curly red hair falling into his eyes. Neither of us speaks. Then I crawl out his bedroom window and onto the roof.

I close my eyes and light a tasteless cigarette.

XXX

I remember Kyle's mother from La Resistance, and she obviously remembers ordering my death; she makes me an entire plate of pancakes, cooing over how thin I am. Then she offers three times to give me some of Kyle's clothing, although I decline each time. She makes sure to stay away from me as much as possible when she walks around the kitchen. Even though her mouth is smiling her eyes are nervous and watching.

I don't kill anyone unless I'm paid. Actually, I don't do _anything _unless I'm paid. Kyle's mom, however, is the one woman I might kill for free. Or at least half-off.

I smile at her and sip my coffee. She attempts to make small talk with me, which I pointedly wave away with a "I am razzur tired, madam, and do not feel like converzation." Then she squeals over how polite I am, still keeping a two-foot distance at all times.

Finally, Ike and Kyle head down the stairs and manage to distract her. I can't help but wake up at five-thirty every morning (ever since my days with the Yardale school the sleep patterns are ingrained into my personality). It turns of Kyle's younger brother Ike, who is five years his junior, is only a single grade below him. Fun stuff. I down the last of my coffee, wish Kyle a decent day at school, and limp back up to his bedroom.

I hide under his desk, my legs pressing against the wooden sides. Being enclosed in small places has always relaxed me. I boot up my five-year-old computer, growling as the applications sleepily flicker across the screen.

Email checking. Fun. I have almost two hundred and fifty requests. The first one is for the assassination of someone's wife. I delete it. The second request is for a bodyguard. I almost reply in affirmative, then I see the requested days is three months at fifty dollars a day. I tell the request-ee that they're going to have to come up with a better deal than that.

Request number three is to find out who stole their bicycle. Petty. Ugh. I hate the petty, pointless stuff one can figure out on their own. The fourth request is for someone to teach a gang of bullies a lesson.

I pause and read the email over again. A teenage boy in England (ugh, England) is being bullied by a group of upperclassmen thugs. He's offering me five hundred per bully to warn them to leave him alone.

Interesting.

I send him a .pdf file to fill out. I shift through almost a hundred emails and find six other people worthy of filling out one of my .pdf files containing information about the date, the location, the risk factors, et cetera. Whoever has the best response I'll attend to first, and then the others if I decide it will be worth my while.

I don't have to go to school, Gregory probably won't be able to track me down for at least two days, and my injured leg keeps me from doing anything fun or at least athletic. So I surf the web. Play a dozen stages of _This Is The Only Level._ Download a couple of new mp3s and repeat them until I'm sick of music. I watch a cartoon from when I was five years old, play another dozen stages of the level, and finally, out of inconceivable boredom, click on Yahoo!news.

I read an article about five killed in a bombing in Israel. Wow, big surprise there. I've always thought the whole situation is entirely idiotic, when I bother to care about current events. I scan the news for other ways to procrastinate. Seven unnamed adult died in a fire in Russia. Twenty-one killed in a bus-engine explosion in India, all Jane Does. Six dead by another explosion in Mexico, again unnamed.

I'm starting to notice a pattern here. A sick feeling builds in my stomach. I close my eyes. I don't want to deal with this, I don't want to deal with this, I don't want to deal with this-

_But the hellspawns' favorite way to dispose of the heavenfilth is through fire- _

_Agh I don't want to deal with this – _

_No one's paying me. I don't have to do anything._

I open my eyes and search around for the USB Kyle gave me. Last night, before he infected Gregory's computer with a virus, he saved the contents into a flash drive so I can look through it. I open it up now, scanning through the folders upon folders upon folders. On my laptop, I have three folders: "Jobs" "This is the Only Level records" and "Angels/Demons/watch out for." Everything is crammed together within those folders. His insane organization makes it easy to maneuver through his computer, which is useful, I suppose. Still weird, but he's always been like this.

I search through it for data I can use. From his log (jesus, he keeps a fucking diary!) he's in New York, which is where Yardale is located. I look under a folder marked "heaven murders – October/2015," (this month and year). The sick feeling grows in my stomach when I see dozens of stories about different nameless people killed in some sort of fire or explosion.

It doesn't take a genius to decipher that something's going on with the hellspawn. Usually there are tons of reports of heavenfilth and hellspawn killing each other – apparently our preferred method is through water, while they're fond of burning. But we tend to keep it to a minimum. I'm one of the Higher Heavenfilth, seeing as I was a living human before I started absorbing my magical powers. The Low heavenfilth and hellspawn are ruled by their instinct, so they're constantly killing each other whenever they encounter each other.

I'm lucky. I think that every day. If I hadn't fully absorbed all of the required energy I needed before I ditched the Yardale school, I'd just be one of the Low heavenfilth instead of the angel/human/whatever thing I am. I'd probably be dead by my own stupidity by now.

But there shouldn't be this many deaths. Low heavenfilth and hellspawn don't actively search each other out. My gut twists.

I always knew it was only a matter of time. God created us High Heavenfilth in preparation for the final battle. Satan did the same with his hellspawn like Kyle and Stan and the other South Park kids.

My fists clench, my gloves curling over the skin of my palm. I'm fucking crazy! The final battle is coming soon, and I'm holed up with a gang of hellspawn!

I take deep breaths and force myself not to jump out the window. I know this: a) Kyle, Stan and the others may be hellspawn, but they know even less about how to use their powers than I do.

b) Kyle and Kenny are both morally centered. While Butters might be willing to do whatever he's told, Cartman is fucked up, and Stan just wants to get everyone to stop screwing around and being stupid (particularly his father), Stan will do whatever Kyle says and Butters will do whatever Kyle, Kenny and Stan say. Cartman can be dealt with.

c) They are High Hellspawn, which means they are not ruled by instinct, even if they are drawn towards Satan's side.

d) I don't smell too strongly. Sure, a well-trained and activated High Hellspawn (read: Damien) can scent me from miles away, but it's not enough to tempt the morally steadfast Kyle.

e) I kick ass even without magic.

f) I have my shovel with me.

I open my eyes and maneuver out of the folder on Gregory's hard drive. They are not going to hurt me. And even if they were, I can't run anywhere, anyway. I have to hobble around Kyle's house, and I suspect it'll be more than two weeks before I can run and jump again.

_Gregory is dealing with all the fire-related deaths. DO NOT THINK ABOUT IT. _

Still one more thing to look up on Gregory's hard drive. I suck in a deep breath and flip through folders, searching for information on Yardale school. There's a convenient folder, course, and inside that is another folder for "Students." I click on it, shuddering when I see a list of names, each with their own folder. There are ten in all. Six have been marked "deceased," which makes me flinch. I shut my laptop, lean back, and close my eyes again. I have a headache from spending so much time on my laptop and staring at the screen.

Pip is heavenfilth. This much is obvious. He has the same reek and the same glow as me. He is not activated, which means he knows as much about using his powers as I do.

But . . . how?

As far as I know, the only heavenfilth in the world are from the Yardale school. It took them a year to transform us from humans into the angel/human/whatever things we are. A year of screaming pain and agony. The required energy isn't something a human can absorb in a short amount of time. The South Park hellspawn have probably been drinking it in for years, at least nine or ten.

How is Pip a heavenfilth?

_It's none of my concern, _the disgruntled-seventeen-year-old part of my brain thinks. _Except it is,_ my paranoid side counters. If Pip=heavenfilth and heavenfilth=Yardale School and Yardale School=Gregory and Gregory= capture and capture=forced to work for Heaven's army for this upcoming war and forced to work for Heaven's army for this upcoming war=fighting demons and fighting demons=death, then Pip=death. Or something. Um.

XXX

"'Tophe!"

I roll out from under Kyle's bed (where I decided was a much safer place to nap) and manage to scramble up to my feet by the time Kyle throws open the door to his room.

Cartman, Stan and Kenny pile in after him. Kenny is covered in blood, his hoodie hanging off him in ragged orange strips of cloth.

"What?"

"My dad's convinced terrorists are going to suicide-bomb all of us!" Stan snaps. "Goddamn it, he's such a retard!" He heads into Kyle's closet and starts to feel around the top shelf.

"What ees happening?" I hobble up to lean against the desk.

Kenny grits his teeth, obviously in pain from his wounded arm. He tears off his sweatshirt and starts to wind a strip of clothing around his bleeding flesh. "Our parents have decided the only way to keep the terrorists from suicide bombing us is to suicide bomb ourselves."

I stare at the four of them. "What?"

"Yeah, that's kind of what we said, too," Kyle mutters. He joins Stan in his closet. Cartman coughs, and I can't blame him. _Still too easy. _

"Ah! I found them!" Stan yells. He and Kyle tumble out of the closet together and land in a heap, Stan on top of Kyle, brandishing a box of something. Cartman finally cracks up, which makes the two of them glare at him.

"They're gonna blow up the mall in twenty minutes. We tried to stop them, but their ninjas attacked me," Kenny says, smirking.

"Ninjas?"

"I swear to god, if you'd gone to school with us today, it would make sense." Kyle mutters, his face flushed.

Then Stan barfs all over Kyle.

"Aw! You suck!" Kyle pushes Stan off him, but he's grinning. Cartman makes gagging noises.

"Shut the fuck up, fatass," Kyle snarls, still blushing bright red. "Stan – nasty. Just nasty."

"Yeah," Stan croaks. "Maybe . . . I was . . . um . . . thinking of . . . the girl in my French class . . . randomly . . . "

"Come on, you fags, we've gotta get going. Brit, you're coming with us."

"I am not fucking English!" I snap at Cartman, my fists clenched.

"Whatever, queermo. If they blow up the mall they blow up the only Shakey's for fifteen miles. Come on guys, let's go."

XXX

Somehow I get roped into digging a tunnel below the mall. Kenny has to bind my leg up so I can shovel without wincing.

Once inside we scramble out of the hole, covered in dirt and shaking from exhaustion.

"Zis is really, really stupid." I sit with my back against the wall, a list of eighty ways this could go wrong and end up killing all of us running through my head. "Zis is ze fourth or fifth stupidest thing I've ever done."

"Shut up," Stan gasps as he hauls one of the tables over on its side to create a sort of barrier for us. "It's not gonna go wrong. Butters is already over there."

Ah, yes. Butters. He gets to be the distraction. He's talking to the parents, hands behind his back, trying to keep their attention on him. The parents are gathered around the bomb, which is right outside the mall's Shakey's. The five of us are huddled next to a radio shack, about two hundred feet away from the exit. No one has realized we've burrowed into their suicide/thing/whatever, even though guards stand at the door with their fucking machine guns raised.

"'Kay, here's the plan," Stan squats down next to Kyle and me. "We wait until Butters has them sufficiently distracted, then Kenny sneaks up on them, holding the box. They shoot Kenny-"

"Hey!" Kenny snaps.

"You'll just come back," Stan points out.

"That doesn't mean it hurts any fucking less, moron." He taps the metal surface of our overturned table and scowls.

". . . anyway, they'll shoot him, which will hopefully kill him –"

"Stan!"

"Just being reasonable, Ken. If you weren't gonna come back, I wouldn't ask you to do it, I swear-"

"Stan. Fucking hell."

"Anyway, they'll be freaked out for a few seconds, and then Cartman, who will be back here with 'Tophe, will push the button, sending off the box. Kyle and I will already be in our positions."

Cartman snorts. Stan ignores him, although Kyle blushes again.

"We'll run forward, grab the bomb, and then take it back here. Meanwhile, 'Tophe will be digging a hole that goes like a hundred feet down. Kyle and I will take the bomb back here, throw it down the hole, and wait for it to go off. On a side note, are our parents completely retarded for getting a _timed bomb_. What the hell?"

"They wanted to be dramatic." Kyle rolls his eyes.

"Uh . . . fail."

"That's what I was thinking, but I wasn't going to argue with my dad and make them have some actually common sense when it came to this whole thing."

"Smart. Okay, so the bomb will go off, and Butters with be with the parents, trying to keep them from doing something drastic. Everyone else will join him as soon as we've recovered. Everyone ready?"

XXX

I collapse on my back and stare up at the ceiling of the mall. The ground below me still shakes from the aftershocks. A yawn tickles my throat. I let it loose and close my eyes, letting my blanket wrapped around me.

We're covered in blood and confetti (yeah, that's what was in the box. Fucking confetti). It glued to "the parents" to get them more interested in their personal well-being rather than a ticking time bomb. Eh, human greed, what the hell.

The other four flop down next to me. I pull out a cigarette and start to smoke it. It's early dusk now, the sky a vivid purple against nothingness.

"Zat 'as insane," I say. Most of the roof remains but the "terrorists" blew up part of the roof. Before "those bastards!" could come and "get a piece of me-"

"It was kind of crazy," Kyle agrees, rubbing his bandaged forearm. He and Stan barely managed to escape the angry parents once Cartman set off the confetti. They received several scratches from their caregivers. I wonder if this goes under child abuse or insanity.

"But at least-" He and Stan start to argue over their teamwork. I let my eyelids start to drift closed.

"Does zis 'appen often?" I mutter.

"Oh, you have no idea." Cartman steps out from the Shakey's, a brown bag in hand. He walks over to a half-conscious, exhausted Butters and starts to kick him awake. "Come on, Butters. Don't be lazy."

"But Eric, you had the easiest job-" Butters whimpers, curls up, and tries to escape his foot.

"Fatass, stop picking on Butters, it's kind of pathetic to watch," Kyle sits up and glowers.

"'Ey! Don't call me fat, you dumb Jew!"

"Don't call me a dumb Jew, douchebag!"

They pounce on either and start to beat the shit out of each other. Stan, Butters and I just watch, none of us moving to stop them. Kenny's corpse has already been mauled by rats in the corner, but otherwise I feel no pressure, no desire to run. My leg doesn't even ache that much.

I'm not used to this concept of "friendship." I haven't felt even the slightest bit "safe" around other people since La Resistance.

It's almost peaceful, which, of course, is fucking stupid.

**Wow. If you actually read through that insanely long thing, feel free to leave a review. Tell me: which is better, a bunch of short chapters with updates every two or three days, or long chapters with updates once a week?**

**I'm sure I've missed a bunch of stupid typos. If the POV was really confusing in this chapter, then tell me and I'll try to fix it. **


	4. Chapter 4

**I made a stupid mistake in the last chapter. I said it's October in this fic. It's not. It's September. I might have enough energy to go back to edit that.**

**This is a LOT bloodier/freakier than the content of my last chapters, enough that I'm considering bumping the rating up to M. You have been warned for squick-y-ness.**

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews, guys~**

**Enjoy:**

He's probably not even out for five minutes, but when his eyes open again he's in the middle of the driveway, gravel pressing against his back. It takes a second for him to sit up and comprehend the bright sun flashing into his eyes, the-

Three soldiers stand around him, grinning with a certain psychopathic flare.

Half a dozen feet away, two other soldiers hold a shrieking Jorge down. For all the little boy's jackassery, Christophe has forgotten he's just six years old, too.

They have Jorge's pants down past his knees, and they press him on his stomach. Tears roll down the other little boy's cheeks.

Christophe doesn't even know what sex is, much less rape and pedophilia. He just knows what he's seeing is deeply wrong. Blood coats Jorge's shirt and slicks his arms. A second little boy is moaning without energy, wounds sliced over every inch of his body. Apparently the soldiers have decided he's boring half-dead, because they've turned their attention to Jorge, Christophe, and the nameless little girl who's already bruised and broken.

"You guys are disgusting," one of the other soldiers says mildly. He and a dozen other soldiers lean against the truck, watching with morbid curiosity.

"Hey, if you want to stop us, go ahead," one of the soldiers standing over Christophe says.

"Nah, thanks, we'll just watch."

"Fucking cocksucking dickless-" Christophe starts to snarl. Something slams into his head. His senseless whirl. He slams back down into the gravel, on his stomach.

One of them has hit him with a gun. Anger churns through him. He tries to flip over onto his back to put up a decent fight, but they hold him down and punch him in the head again, laughing. He can't fight back, can't struggle, they're too strong.

Jorge's shrieks scrape his ears. The sound of the little girl sobbing stabs into his heart. He knows whatever's happening to them is about to happen to him. And whatever it is, it seems fucking painful.

He tries to gasp out an oath, but someone presses his head against the ground, and fingers pull down his trousers. Someone grabs his hand and forces his fingers to stroke something long and warm, but he keeps his eyes closed and his cheek in the gravel because he doesn't want to see whatever it is.

He will not cry, he promises to himself fiercely. No matter what happens, he will not cry.

Something pushes inside of him, and he lets out a yell but manages to choke back the sob in his throat. His eyes remain closed. Then something's pounding into him, jerking him forward, and he breaks his promise and he's shrieking as loud as he can for his _maman_ –

"_Chingar!"_

Something shoves the bodies off of him. He lurches to his feet immediately, blood running down his cheeks from the cuts on his face. Crimson pools in his collarbones and soaks his shirt, but he ignores it and yanks his trousers up. Everything burns and aches. Shaky adrenaline sings through him. His fight-or-flight instinct sends waves of energy into every inch of his body.

"Fuck! Fuck!" Maria screams. She grabs him and pulls him close to her.

"'ere zid 'ou come fruh-" he babbles out.

"Wake up! Are you okay? Be okay!" She doesn't give him time to respond. He absorbs the surroundings in less than a second. Soldiers backing away from them. Chase and Gregory stand in the center of their circle, each holding a gun.

"Where deed you get zose?" Christophe pants out, his coherency returning.

"We jumped a soldier, then cornered another couple more," Gregory says, his eyes narrowed. He glances at the soldiers backing away from them. "I am sorry for the language, Christophe, but _motherfucker_. I know you probably do not understand what they were doing to you, but I do, and it is the sickest thing an adult can do to a child."

"Short of killing zem," Christophe mutters, because it's true, the soldiers are wearing their _I-can't-believe-we-let-a-couple-of-kids-scare-the-shit-out-of-us_ expressions and holding their ground, clenching their weapons.

Maria cocks her own gun, but the soldiers just laugh.

Jorge staggers to his feet, and stumbles, almost falling before he can catch himself. He pulls his shredded boxes up over his hips. Tears trickle down his face, but the sobs turn into snarls within seconds.

The other little girl tries to stand, her dress ripped and matted with her own blood. Jorge grabs her and punches her in the head. She topples back to the ground, moaning in pain. Maria cries out and starts for her brother, but he's already squatted down on the little girl and is throwing punches into her face and screaming that he's going to fucking kill her, he's going to fucking kill them all.

Maria drags him off and then a soldier snatches her up. Christophe lets out a strangled shout and then another soldier grabs him, wrapping muscular arms around his waist.

"Time!"

Everything halts. Christophe turns away from the blood fray and sees the man in the suit, the leader.

"Did you have fun?" the man asks with a smile.

XXX

Christophe doesn't see much of the school. Everything is a blur. His mind cannot even start to comprehend the events of the last twenty-four hours. He watched children die. His brother was killed. He himself is almost murdered for no apparent reason, other than fun. Actually, none of this has had any reason or point.

What he does see of the school is that it's the largest building he's ever stepped foot in. Inside it's less like a school and more like an office building, complete with elevators, cubicles, and dozens of business workers.

Their dorms are on the eleventh floor, the top. The man in the suit informs them they will be given a tour the next day. It's about four o clock in the afternoon, earlier than he's ever gone to bed, but his sleep patterns are fucked up from the crazy shit he's been sucked into.

The second he's deposited in his room (it's the size of his old house, with lush blue carpet and a huge bed, even its own bathroom) he scrambles into Maria's bedroom. The other two have already invaded her quarters. The four of them sit together on her bed. They don't admit they _need_ to cuddle, they _need _to be close, and they _need_ someone to cling to. They just pull their knees to their chests and sit in silence, the grandfather clock ticking.

Eventually, they fall asleep.

Christophe wakes up with a start several hours later. It's tar-black outside, the kind of darkness that clings to everything it touches. The windows are open, and the wind blows the curtains into her room. Gregory is gone.

Cautiously, Christophe disentangles himself from Maria and Chase and tip-toes to the window. His body groans in pain when he shifts his weight, but he sticks his head out of the window and into the open air anyway. His cuts were cleaned well, the worst of them bandaged, but his body still protests at the sudden movements.

He peeks up to the roof and sees a bare foot. He grits his teeth and clambers out the window, grabbing at the sill and hoisting himself up onto the roof.

The school is designed as such: there is a main office-y part, and then there is a more homely part jutting out from it. This, the ten of them have been informed, is where they will be attending their school, the Yardale School.

Gregory is poised against the chimney (yes, an honest-to-god fucking chimney. What the hell). His back leans against the bricks, and his bare right foot taps in rhythm to some unknown melody. He raises an eyebrow when Christophe scrambles over the shingles to sit next to him, but says nothing.

They sit in silence for a few seconds. Then Christophe says, "We could escape, _oui_?" He gestures out to the wide-open world in front of them. Beyond the gate is more driveway, surrounded by trees and forest. Beyond that is the highway and fields.

"You heard what they said." Gregory still doesn't look at him. "Escape attempts will not be tolerated."

"But we can still escape?"

A smile ghosts over Gregory's lips. "Yes. If we have the right plan."

"Mmm." Christophe doesn't say anything else.

Finally, Gregory speaks, still staring straight out at the world beyond the Yardale school. "It's my fault you were . . . hurt the way you were today."

". . .'ow so?"

"I was thinking of a plan. But I did not think of it fast enough. I should have come up with something that would have saved us all, faster."

Christophe stares at him. He doesn't know how to respond for something like this. Whenever he felt guilty back at home – for stealing food, for blackmailing Owen into skipping school with him – he always reasoned it with 'I did it with no malicious intent.' Now, though, the rules have changed. Malicious intent or not, Christophe was still hurt today.

"Eet's not your fault," he says after a while. "You are just a child."

"You are, too," Gregory says, and finally looks at him. They half-stare, half-glower at each other for about five seconds, and then Gregory continues. "You are just a child, too, but today you showed such bravery the likes of which I have never seen before."

Christophe offers him a crooked smile. "Zis might be because I'm crazy."

Both of them shut up.

The night starts to chill, cold weighing down in their bones. After about ten minutes, Christophe says, "Gregory?"

"Yes?"

"I do not trust you. I 'ave 'eard you plot and plan and con your way onto ze side which most benefits you. Last night, with ze leader of this fucked-up place, and today, when we were trying to find an escape, you have shown what kind of mind you 'ave. You might 'ave saved me, but you are still not trustworthy. You are deeply fucked up."

Gregory stares at him in surprise for a half-second, and then gives him a crooked smirk. "Same to you, Christophe."

XXX

More murders. More fire-related deaths. I shouldn't be looking this up. I should be relaxing and trying to heal and absolutely not worried about the upcoming war between heaven and hell. Yeah.

I wonder what I should tell Stan and Kyle and Kenny. I don't want to incite them into killing me, but they've been more than hospital and don't seem like they're going to randomly blow me up any time soon.

I should at least warn Pip. He needs to get out of here. Just by glancing out my window, I see him being chased around the neighborhood by other kids, punched by bullies, scorned by the adults. The hell-allied humans will start_ really_ hurting him the closer and closer we get to the war. Even Stan, Kyle, and Cartman barely tolerate him, sometimes shoving him aside or ignoring him. Butters is the only one who shows any kindness towards him. I'm not treated this why (in fact, Stan and Kyle seem to have some affection for me) but this could be because I haven't spent as much time around them or because Pip is more powerful than me. I'm guessing the later.

I rub my temples. Fucking headache. I shouldn't be curious about any of this, I should be focusing on healing up so I can head to England to deal with bullies. It's been a week and a half since I woke up in Pip's house and I can almost walk correctly-

"Christophe?"

I slam my laptop shut so no one can see the reports of death strewn across my screen. I crawl out from under Kyle's desk. Pip stands in the doorway. _Great._

"Kyle's mom let you up?"

He nods. Kyle is over at Stan's playing videogames, but I declined my own invitation. They probably wanted time alone to make out or something.

"All right," I say. "What is it?" I figure he has a question about his being a heavenfilth or something. We've barely spoken in the past week.

Instead, Pip says, "Recently there's been a lot of murders-"

My eyes widen.

"I don't know if you know, but around the world there have been a lot of people dying by fire-related deaths, and most of these people are unnamed. I know this means hellspawn have been killing the lower heavenfilth."

Holy shit, how much does he_ know_? More than _me_?

"Damien," he says at the expression on my face. "He tells me about these things, when he visits. Helped me out a lot, actually, taught me to repress the way my magic smells so you can't pick up my scent from more than a few hundred feet away. Apparently I'd be dead if he hadn't."

"_Oui,_ likely," I manage. He would have been killed by hellspawn ages ago. Even I've been attacked by some of the low hellspawn on occasion, and I usually only spend on a day or so in each city.

"I have a request to ask of you," he continues. "About the deaths- they're horrible, but I know it's just something hellpsawn and heavenfilth do to each other. But I want to make sure . . . there's been a lot of deaths around Colorado . . . I want to make sure . . . "

"You want to make sure Damien ees not one of ze ones doing ze killing."

He looks at the ground, his blond hair falling in a curtain over his face.

"Yeah," he manages.

"Sorry. I do not do zings out of ze goodness of my heart. Damien is dangerous, and if 'e's been killing 'eavenfilth the last zing I want is to get near 'im."

"Please," he says, leaning forward, his face flushed. "He's my only friend, really, he is. I mean, he did blow me up, but he's not a bad person."

"At least, you don't want 'im to be."

"I'll pay you," he puts in.

I can't help it. I peer at him for a few seconds, and after an epic internal battle of weighing brief financial stability against the value of my own life, say, "'ow much?"

XXX

"I am such a fucking moron," I snarl to no one. I suck on a cigarette as I stomp down the residential road, only limping slightly. "Really. If I die because of zis, it will be all my fault."

I peer at the sticky note with Damien's address scratched across it. How much else has Pip been keeping to himself?

"I deserve to be mauled by ze angels or kidnapped by Gregory or even eaten by ze fucking guard dogs."

I stop in front of Damien's house. It's small, but apparently, he's the only one who lives here. The empty driveway is painted with a starry mural. I stare at it for half a second, then stomp over the dead lawn and rap my fist against the door.

This is not worth five hundred dollars.

No one answers. I hit the door again, then wait. After thirty seconds, I turn to go find a place to stake out the house. Then I hear the shrieking.

I whirl around and kick open the door with my good left leg. The walls inside are caked with blue-red splatters. Furniture is piled up in a corner. And in the center of the room, Damien wrestles with a white-clothed winged figure. An angel. I watch, frozen, as he twists its wings behind its back and straddles it. Wounds coats the angel's body. Blue-red blood oozes sluggishly.

Damien raises a knife. The angel shrieks, twisting its head and wriggling its body. He's too strong. He drags his knife over its wings and shoulders, finally ripping the soft flesh of its throat-

Well, I've answered Pip's question. Time to get out of here.

My legs don't move.

_Come on, body. We're ditching this place._

But the stupid heroic side of me forces me to tackle Damien, my shovel clenched in my hands. I try to smash him over the head with it, but a wave of magic slams into me and I crash back into the wall.

My vision blurs and everything shimmers around me. I moan and touch my fingers to my bleeding head.

He stands up, brushes some dust off himself, and turns to glare at me. "What the _fuck?"_ he snaps.

The angel scrambles to its feet, clutching at its bleeding neck. It slips in its own blood, smacks into the ground, then struggles back up. Damien sighs and waves his hand. Chains appear out of nowhere, snaking around the angel. They drag it to the far wall. With a smirk at me, Damien picks up his knife and stalks over to the angel. Invisible bonds hold me back. I don't let myself close my eyes.

XXX

Cigarette smoke blows into my face. Damien lights one for me and sticks it in my mouth. I would slap him away, but I'm tied to a chair.

He stands over me, smoking, for a few minutes. To my utter humiliation, he has to "help" me smoke by pulling the cigarette in and out of my mouth for me. I can't tell him to stop, though, because it feels too damn good. Stupid nicotine addiction.

When both our cigarettes have burned out to stubs, he drops them into the ashtray and turns to me.

"Okay," he says. "Spill. What the hell are you doing at my apartment? How'd you find me, anyway?"

I meet his gaze defiantly. After a few long seconds, I say, "Client confidentiality."

He punches me.

My head snaps back. Pain blossoms and shoots through me. I taste blood, but face him again, cracking my jaw.

"Ow," I say, annoyed.

He rolls his eyes. "Client confidentiality . . . aw, it was Pip, wasn't it? He's seen about the murders or something and asked you to make sure I wasn't a total jackass."

I say nothing, just sit there, fuming. He takes my silence as affirmative.

"Well, you can tell_ Pip_," he pronounces the name with sarcasm, "That I'm not a complete douchebag murderer and never have been."

"Really." I raise my eyebrows. "I zink 'e would 'ave to disagree."

I jerk my head at the angel's body.

"That was self-defense," Damien says. "She attacked me first. I was just minding my own business. And if I'd let her go, she'd tell all the others the antichrist was camped out in the middle of Denver."

I continue to glower at him.

"Aw, come on," he says, almost pleading. "You really want to give me that expression?"

"Let me go. _Faggot-assed cocksucker,"_ I mutter under my breath.

He smirks. "Is that an invitation?"

"Fuck you!" I try to kick out at him, but he dodges around my legs.

"So, what's your name, anyway?"

No point in a false name. "Christophe."

He grins. "Christophe . . . pretty."

"Why, zank you," I say sarcastically.

"I'm Damien, son of Satan."

"I know, cocksucker."

"Now you're just teasing me."

I narrow my eyes. I need some new insults.

"You're a High Heavenfilth, right?" he asks after a few seconds of examining me. "I couldn't tell at first because you weren't using any magic _at all_ to heal yourself, so I thought you were completely human. Guess you're just a stubborn bastard. I didn't know God was making any High Heavenfilth – dad thought that was too unorthodox for him."

"What about Pip?"

"Pip's special." His gaze flicks over me. I wait and he doesn't elaborate.

"How's the leg?" he asks suddenly.

"Splendid," I spit out.

We glare at each other in silence for ten seconds.

"I wish I could let you go," he muses.

"What?"

"Well, I killed that angel because I didn't want it to go and tell all its little friends my location. I'm afraid the same rules apply to you."

"No fucking way I would ever want to talk to one of zose ass-kissers," I growl. I've met angels before. They're all cooperate assholes. "I'm not with ze angels."

"Sure, sure. You're just saying that so I won't kill you."

"What about Pip? He's 'eavenfilth and you're obviously letting 'im live."

"Again. Pip. Is. Special." His gaze runs over me. "So, you want to start the begging and pleading?"

"Not really." My mind is blank except for anger. I keep glowering at him. He meets my gaze for a few seconds. His smile broadens.

"I don't think I'll kill you," he admits.

"Really? Fantastic news. Why ze 'ell not?"

He raises his eyebrows and a genuinely concerned expression flashes over his face. "Uh, do you want me to?"

"Not particularly. I'm just curious."

"I have nothing against killing the low heavenfilth," he says. "They might be human, but celestial influence has mutated them enough so they're practically zombies. Same for the angels. They're usually fighting tooth and nail to kill me and they're already sort of dead, anyways. But you, you're one of the High Heavenfilth, so you have your own thoughts and feelings – and I can tell you don't care about any of this."

"Brilliant deduction."

"Thanks. I try." He studies me. "I don't want to kill you."

"Zat's fantastic."

"But I still can't let you go. Sorry." He pats me on the head and starts to clean up the body.

XXX

Damien picks up takeout Chinese food for dinner. I wrinkle my nose but by this time I'm so hungry I don't care. The apartment starts to reek of angel blood. The scent is rather like rotten oranges. Not terrible, but not exactly pleasant, either.

He eats right in front of me, smirking in amusement as I stare at him, my mouth watering. He has to drag the card table back into the kitchen from the pile of furniture in the corner. Before he starts to eat he positions the seat I'm tied in across from him so I can get an excellent view of him chewing.

I miss my shovel and wish I could brain him with it.

After he sighs and sticks his plate in the dishwasher, he leans back in his chair and grins at me. I meet his gaze defiantly. My stomach chooses this moment to grumble.

"You're hungry, aren't you?"

"You 'ave zis amazing ability to state the obvious."

"It's a finely honed talent. Don't worry, I'm not gonna starve you." He grins. "I do get to choose your method of ingestion, though."

I watch him warily. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "It means you have two options. Either I untie you and you can use your own hands, or I keep you tied up in those pretty little ropes and feed you myself."

My eyes widen. His grins broadens. He's not joking.

That would probably be the fifth or sixth most humiliating thing to ever happen to me. I know it's just him and me here, but I still don't want to have to experience it.

"What do you want?"

"For each bite of you eat, you have to let me ask you one question about your life. If you lie to me or you refuse to answer, then I get to feed you a bite."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"A, why do you want to feed me, and b, why do you want to know about my life?"

"Because I would like to know more about the heavenfilth I'm keeping captured indefinitely, and because it would be funny."

"Fuck you."

"Sounds like fun."

I start swearing at him in French, which makes him laugh. "Son of a beetch," I snarl. My stomach chooses this moment to groan again.

"So do we have a deal?" he asks, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

I shrug, which is rather difficult with the ropes wrapped around me. He grins and the ropes disappear. Then he scoots his chair over so he's sitting six inches from me, and sticks a carton of Chinese food and a fork in front of me.

I pick up the fork, but he says, "Nu-uh, question first." I glower at him and wait.

"How'd you get to be a High Heavenfilth?"

"I went to a special school." I stuff a bite into my mouth before he can stop me.

"Huh. You aren't lying. Darn."

"You can tell when I'm lying?"

"Of course. Okay, so what kind of special school? What exactly happened to make you a High Heavenfilth? No stupid answers that don't explain anything, I want the nitty-gritties."

I figure he can torture the answers out of me anyway. And hey, if he uses the information to kill everyone at Yardale, I throw a party.

"Ze Yardale School. Et is a school made for those who work for God, in preparation for zis upcoming war. Eet 'as probably made for ze same reason your father started creating all zeese 'ellspawn out of ze South Park children."

"Ah, my little brothers," he says with both affection and scorn. I don't think he means "little brothers" in the literal sense.

I take another bite, keeping my eyes on him. My throat is dry. "Water?"

He fills a cup, but withholds it from me. "A sip is a question, too."

I scowl.

"How old were you when you become Heavenfilth?"

"Six." I grab the cup from him and take a gulp. He snatches it back before I can down it all.

"Six? In just one year? Wasn't that painful?"

"Very." He glowers at me when I drain half the cup in one swallow.

"What do you do now? Why'd you come here for Pip, anyway?"

"I'm a mercenary. 'E paid me five 'undred dollairres." I finish the glass of water and set it down in front of him.

"How is Pip?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

"I said, how is Pip? Is he . . . happy?"

"No. 'E is bullied mercilessly." I return to my food.

He smirks. "Thought something like that would happen."

"'E says you're 'is only friend."

"I am. Doesn't mean it's not funny."

"You're a great friend." I try to scarf down as much food as possible with his attention directed elsewhere. He snatches it back from me.

"You just ate four questions' worth of food."

"'Ey, give zat back!"

"Nu-uh, you have to answer four questions first."

"Fine." We glower at each other until Damien speaks again.

"How'd you get shot?"

"Police." He stares at me until I elaborate. "I 'as doing a job in Vancouver, I was . . . ah . . . "liberating" some information on zis chain of pedophiles. I managed to get ze information and give it over to the police, but ze people who are 'unting me down from Yardale got wind of my location and tried to 'ave me trapped."

"You're being hunted down?"

"Yes. I escaped many years ago. They want me back." I smirk at him. "Does zat scare you?"

"Not particularly." He just watches me for a few seconds. "One more free question," he points out.

I scowl, which makes him grin.

"Okay, do you want to learn how to use your magic?"

The question catches me off-guard. "Why would you ask zat?"

"I'm just wondering."

I stare at him, then shake my head.

"Why not?"

"I do not want to be involved with the war between 'eaven and 'ell. I cannot 'elp but use my magic when I dig, but otherwise I would like to just live my life. Give me back my food."

He reluctantly lets me eat. I'm halfway through with the carton by now.

"Why do you hate God so much?"

Again, it takes me a few seconds to respond. "Because I have met 'im, and 'e ees a cocksucking asshole."

"You met him? Really?"

"No, I'm just bullsheeting you, and your ability to tell 'ether or not I'm lying 'as magically disappeared."

"Hah hah. Funny."

"I try." I stick my fork back in the carton, but he stills my hand and gives me a look with his dark red eyes that makes an unwanted tremor of fear crawl up my spine.

"So," he says. "Are you gay, straight, or what?"

I drop my fork and pull my hand away from his. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because you amuse me."

"If you come on to me, zen I will definitely punch you," I warn.

He grins, not necessarily in disappointment. "I'm guessing straight, then?"

"No."

"Ooooh-"

"I am asexual," I snap. "Zat means I do not want to fuck anyone. _Especially_ not you."

He gets a _what? _look and thinks for a few seconds.

"So, does that mean you reproduce by, like cloning yourself?"

"No." I say. "No, it doesn't."

"What does it mean?"

"I just told you. I do not want to fuck anyone."

"Are you sure you're not just gay?"

"_Oui._ Now cut out ze sexual 'arassment."

"Damn." He grins. "So you're on the run from the Yardale School. For how long?"

I snatch my fork back from him, take a bite and chew before answering. "Since I 'as seven."

He raises his eyebrows. "So, that's like, what, seven years?"

"Ten," I snap. "I'm seventeen."

"You're really short. And skinny. And small."

"I 'ave been living on my own for nine years. I 'ave not exactly 'ad enough to eat." I scowl at him and then pointedly down at my half-eaten food. He sits back and grins at me creepily, which I take as an invitation to keep munching.

"Are there any other High Heavenfilth?"

I freeze mid-chew, then slowly turn to him. "Yes," I say.

"How many? Do you know them? Do they come from the same school as you?"

"None of your business."

He snags the fork from me and dragged it out of my mouth. I try to snap it back but he pulls it away.

"Answer me," he says, "or I'll tie you up and do things to you your asexual ass would not be happy with."

"Fuck you," I snap. "I'm not surprised zat ze antichrist ees-"

"A rapist?" he suggests. "Nah, I just like screwing with your mind. Or other parts of you."

I steal my fork from him. He grabs my wrist and pulls me up next to him so our lips are almost brushing. The position makes my insides curl.

"Answer me," he breathes.

"_Beetch!"_

He shoves me out of my chair and I crash to the ground. He stands over me, his friendly demeanor completely gone.

"Just answer me, damn it!" His eyes glow a bright red. His fists clench. The table starts to levitate behind him. Silverware flies out of the draw and floats in the air.

"Someone 'as issues." I have to force out the sarcasm. I try to sit up and he kicks me down. My back hits the hard wood floor. He straddles me, fists and eyes still glowing, pressing me down with his body weight.

"Why don't you fucking answer me?"

"Maybe because you are being completely idiotic."

He grabs my wrists and spreads my arms out.

I'm helpless beneath him, and I know this position from the year I spent at Yardale school. I spit at him. He pins both wrists together above my head and uses his free hand to wipe his face. Then he punches my face, cracking my nose. My head snaps back and crashes into the wood. I see stars. Pain flashes through me. It takes a second to ebb.

Oh, yes. I know this position very well.

"You have three seconds to convince me not to kill you," he growls.

"Zere names are Chase, Gregory, and Maria," the mole says from below him. He looks up at Damien with blank eyes. "Every'un else ees deed. We all went to ze same school togezer."

Damien stares down at him. The mole continues to show no emotion.

"Aerre you go'eeng to kill me now? Or maybe you will decide to fuck me first. 'ateverre you choose, 'ave fun with zat." The mole smiles a sick smile up at him, then laughs.

"Christophe?" Damien whispers.

The mole yawns. "Zough, if you aerre going to fuck me, I suggest you 'urry up before I get bored, _oui_?"

"The fuck?" Damien climbs off him. The mole sits up and rubs his wrists without emotion.

"'Tophe, sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I have temper issues-"

The mole smirks at him again. "'atever you say, 'ellspawn."

**Yay! I finished chapter four. I have decided shorter chapters and more frequent updates is the way to go, though you can't tell by looking at this one. If Christophe's accent is becoming indecipherable, please tell me. Also, do you guys think I should bump the rating up to M? I really don't want to tone down the violence.**

**Ughhhh, that was WAY too much slash for me. The action picks up the next chapter, I promise. **

**Until next time. **

**Revviiiiiiieeewwww**

**~Liz out**


	5. Chapter 5

**Shorter and late chapter. So, um . . . here's some random violence! Enjoy! **

The demon hisses. Its bat wings sprawl over the ground, the tears in the flesh grounding it. It opens its mouth, revealing two-foot fangs. It's the size of a truck, its dozen legs bending and folding in awkward directions.

Christophe hisses right back at it. He holds a knife in each hand. His legs tremble as he slides back into a fighting crouch. The ten of them have been battling this hellspawn for over an hour.

"Chris!" Maria grabs him by the collar of his t-shirt and drags him back. The demon just watches as she pulls him behind the boulder along with the others. "Don't be crazy!" she snaps. "You can't take that thing on by yourself!"

He glowers at her. "Eet ees injured," he says, indicating with a flick of his head. It makes a whining, wincing moan, right on cue. "I 'ave made sure of zat."

"Still. Wait for the rest of us!"

The other children are still licking their wounds from their last battle with the demon, about five minutes ago. They're injured - even Christophe has a couple of bruised ribs – but he knows if they could jump it right now, it wouldn't stand a chance against the ten of them.

"Listen," Gregory says. He's lost his shirt somewhere in the middle of the fight, probably about fifteen minutes ago when the demon bit him. The wounds on his shoulder are already beginning to blacken. Probably poisoned. His breath comes in shaky pants. No time to worry about curing it – they have to end this battle fast.

"Why should we listen to you?" A boy of Jorge's gang, Lou, snaps in broken English. He points to another little boy, who's whimpering in pain from his mauled leg. "Your last plan almost got Xander killed!"

"We do not have much time. Lilac, Jonas and I are poisoned and we will die soon if we are not treated. We should kill this thing soon so the teachers will let us out of the arena." Gregory's expression remains passive. He surveys the other children. His gaze meets with Christophe, and he grins. They both know they can rely on each other; Gregory to come up with a plan, and Christophe to be crazy enough to do it.

"Maria, Jorge, and Alec will go out first and distract it. They will break up and keep its attention. Then Christophe, Lilac, and myself will make up the second wave. We will attack it directly. It will most likely manage to fend us off, but Maria, Jorge and Alec will return and attack it as well. Lou, Chase and Jonas will accompany us. My team will go for its wings to pain it and anger it; Maria's team will return and attack its eyes and face; Chase's team will go for its heart, which will hopefully kill it."

"_That's_ your plan? Basically to throw ourselves at it?" Lou demands.

"We do not have the time or the resources to come up with a better one," Gregory snaps at him. He grips his wound. "Does everyone still have their knives?"

The teachers issued two knives to each of them before throwing them into this clearing with the demon. They all nod.

Jorge glowers at Gregory but doesn't argue with him. He's wounded himself, the right side of his face burned. It obviously pains him, but he just keeps his teeth gritted.

"Ready? Jorge, Maria, Alec – go."

The three of them jump out from behind the boulder. The rest of them watch anxiously as the first wave runs for the demon. It hisses and snorts out fire at Maria. She ducks, but cries out when her arm is singed. None of them falter. The ten children have been forced to work together plenty of times in the past eight months. They know how to work as a team, even if they loathe each other.

They break off and scatter around it, forming a triangle with the demon in the center. Its head swivels as it tries to decide whom to burn.

Alec throws his knife at its body. The blade barely nicks the demon's skin before clattering to the sandy soil, but the demon still roars and lunges for him. Alec rolls out of the way of its attack, smashing into a pine tree.

Before the demon can snap its teeth down on him, Maria slams her knife into one of its dragging wings. It lets out a roar and turns on her.

"It's distracted- go!" Gregory hisses. He, Lilac, and Christophe take off. Christophe jumps onto its back and grabs a fistful of leathery wing. He drives his blade through it. The demon lets out a scream, and arches, almost throwing him off. He presses a leg to either side of it and yanks his knife out of the wing, only to drive it back in.

Five feet above him, Gregory is hacking at the beast's spine with body of his knives, his body trembling as the black stain oozes over his arm. Christophe sees Maria even further up the demon's body, clutching one of its ears with one arm and using the other to drive her knife into its plate-sized right eye again and again. Chase crawls underneath the monster and Christophe hears the smaller boy shriek a senseless battle cry.

The children swarm over the demon, stabbing it, tearing at it. They're not kids anymore – they're wild animals fighting to survive.

Finally, the demon topples over, dead. Christophe wants to just collapse next to it, but he disentangles himself from its wings and crawls over it. Chase's leg is trapped under its body. Christophe helps the smaller boy free, and they lie back into the earth together, panting for breath. Christophe hugs him like he'll fall apart if he doesn't, which just makes Chase laugh.

Gregory is lying on top of the demon's corpse. The black poison in his body has spread to his fingertips. He and Christophe lock gazes, and smile at each other.

Then the Teachers show up and helicopter them back to Yardale school.

XXX"I don't care who ze fuck we're meeting," Christophe snaps, tugging on the collar of his pressed shirt. "I will not be polite. You cannot make me say "sir" unless I feel zey 'ave deserved it, and zis cocksucking ass'ole 'as definitely not deserved it."

"Christophe . . ." The teacher sighs and looks at the elevator roof for a few seconds, as if the answer to life is up there. Then she looks down at him. "I don't think you understand the severity of this situation-"

"You are taking me to meet ze owner and creator of Yardale school, which I fucking 'ate, by ze way. Why 'e is subjecting ze ten of us to constant torture, I do not know, nor do I care to know. All I know iz zat zis bastard is putting us zrough it. Zerefore, I am going to tell 'im to fuck off."

"Oh, dear." The teacher sucks in a deep breath. She puts a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs her off with a glare. She might play the nice, concerned motherly-type right now, but she's also been one of the ones who shoves him into the practice arena, or makes him sit in the refridgerator for hours on end. And she's forced him to chug down a toxic purple liquid once a week, and after he drinks it he throws up and heaves and heaves and heaves for hours, until his sides ache and his throat scraped by acid and he wants to die. He was forced to drink the purple liquid yesterday evening, and he still feels queasy.

"Christophe," she says finally. "You do know who it _is _you're meeting, right?"

"_Oui."_

"And . . . you still insist on being rude to him?"

"_Oui."_

She smiles fondly down at him, and ruffles his feathery dark hair. "You are the strongest seven-year-old I've ever met," she informs him.

Christophe does not reply. It was his birthday three days ago. _Wee._ Chase gave him a card made from cut-out newspapers, Maria gave him a necklace of just a leather cord (he wears it now, underneath his shirt; he'll wear it forever) and Gregory smuggled in a box of cigarettes and won't say how, although Christophe suspects what he had to do for the box and is eternally grateful. The four of them tested the cigarettes out at midnight, all of them coughing and groaning and laughing. It had been both the best and worst birthday ever. But it doesn't matter; he can't remember any of his other birthdays, now, just the vaguest recollection that he's had them.

His birthday also marked that they've spent 154 days in the Yardale school, a little over five months. Christophe has long given up hope on them escaping within the next few years (and, yes, thanks to Gregory, he's accepted the 'years' factor of their plan). They can't escape until they're better at fighting, stronger, and they understand more of what the hell is going on.

"Just, Christophe-" the teacher sighs. "Make sure not to say anything too rude, okay?"

"I cannot promise anyzing."

And then the elevator doors ding open.

XXX

When I wake up the next morning Damien has his arms around me. My back is pressed up against his bare chest. We're spooning. I close my eye and open them again. I'm still staring against the pillow next to me.

It's not like I have a problem with physical contact. I actually like it, if it's from people I can stand/or trust (although Damien currently falls under neither of those categories). It's just that his chin is rested on my shoulder and his breath flutters against my cheek.

Okay. How did I get into this situation?

I remember last night, and flinch. Damien mutters behind me but doesn't stir from his slumber.

Let me get this straight (hahhah, stupid pun). I am not asexual because of some past horrible experience, although I have plenty of those. I am asexual because I was born that way, end of discussion.

A fact Damien seems willing to disregard. I close my eyes. After he flipped out, I snapped and turned into the mole. Then he freaked and apologized, but I stayed as the mole and just sat on the ground and stared at him until he _completely _lost it. Not bad for a bastard who'd been about to kill me. He forced me to take a shower, then finish my food, and then when he tried to get me to sleep on his bed I kept sitting straight up and just staring at the wall, he grabbed me around the waist and forced me to lie down next to him.

I hate "the mole" side of me sometimes. He doesn't know how to interact with people. He's just willing to do whatever it takes to survive, and when there's nothing left threatening him/us/me/whatever he'll just stop trying at anything.

. . . and I'm thinking of my sort-of-split-personality in third person. This is just great.

I wriggle out from under Damien's arms. I'm wearing his pajamas, and he's in only a pair of sweatpants. It's 5:38 in the morning according to the alarm clock next to the mattress on the floor. I woke up later than usual.

I can't remember what he did with my clothes last night. Think the cocksucker said something about taking them to the Laundromat. Or something. I dig through his closet and find a button-up black collar shirt and some jeans. His clothes dwarf me – he has to have eight inches on me, easy, which makes me curse in French while I roll up the sleeves. At least I find an unopened packet of cigarettes next to his alarm clock. Mm, nicotine.

My shovel lies in the corner of his bedroom. I sling the strap over my back and wrap my rope around my arm. These are essentials for every mercenary's survival. The rest of my stuff is back at Kyle's house. I was only supposed to be gone for the day. I wonder what they think about my random disappearance. Probably figure I ditched them.

I ease my way out of his bedroom. He has three rooms in his apartment: the bedroom/bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room. I stalk through the living room, find my combat boots at the door, and stuff my feet into them. I'll miss my clothes (I've had that particular pair of trousers/t-shirt for a year) but at least I have my shovel. The mole last night couldn't care less where he was as long as in no immediate dangers, but _I'm _not stupid enough to stick around him.

I open the door. Winter air hits me. It's still fucking September. Goddamn hell-allied South Park/Maybe the entirety of Colorado. Goddamn this place and its stupid weather. I step out of the house and then stop.

I can't move.

It's not that I don't want to. It's not that something's stopping me. It's just that . . . I can't.

I remember last night, Damien's words: _I put a spell on you so you can't leave. I won't have to tie you up anymore._

Scowling, I stand there with the door open and smoke a cigarette. I stew in the freezing cold and briefly consider killing him, then remember he's the son of Satan, so that could be kind of difficult. Instead, I finish my cigarette, groan and head to the kitchen for something to eat. I wonder when he'll finally decide to either kill me or let me go.

I find a half-empty carton of milk, a single egg, and a case of beer in the fridge. There are _Frosted Flakes_ and bread in the cupboards. That's it. It also looks like he hasn't done the dishes in about ten years. What a fucking asshole. And, of course, the apartment is still coated in angel-blood stains.

I consider just eating the cereal, but my stomach groans, demanding something more breakfasty.

If only I could leave the house. Then I could go to an IHOP or something.

_If only I could leave the house. Then I could go back to Kyle's and get them to help me blow up Damien. _

I sigh and pull out the milk and eggs.

Fifteen minutes later Damien stumbles into the kitchen, his eyes bleary, still shirtless. His alarm clock blares back in the bedroom. "What the hell is going on?" he growls, then freezes when he sees me at the stove.

"You cook?"

"Do not get too gushy over it, fag," I snap at him. "I am making _myself_ breakfast since your fucked-up spell will not let me leave ze 'ouse."

"French toast . . . " He grins, which makes me scowl.

"What, are you not going to _permit_ eet?" My voice drips sarcasm. I flip a third slice of toast over on the pan. I would've used a griddle, but he doesn't have any. Moron.

"Nah, it's fine, as long as you give me some. Fuck, that smells amazing."

"Eet ees mine. I made eet."

"Don't be an asshole. It's my food."

"You 'ave me captured. Zerefore, I do not fucking care."

Smirking, he steals the pack of cigarettes back and heads outside. When he comes back in five minutes later, the smell of cooking breakfast is overpowering.

He manages to snatch a slice of French toast from me. The look on his face when he bites into it can only be described as orgasmic.

"Marry me, please."

I choose not to respond to that comment.

"What time is it?" he mutters after a few minutes of contented munching.

"You are ze one with zat alarm clock going off constantly."

"It'll turn off by itself in a few minutes." But he yawns and heads to his bedroom.

Thirty seconds later he scrambles out of the bedroom, yanking on a t-shirt. "It's six fifteen!" he yells, eyes wide.

"Congratulations." I lean back against the counter, waiting for my French toast to finish.

He glowers at me, then starts to pull on a pair of converse. "You can't leave the house today - sorry, not gonna take the spell off you, I'm not stupid. Do whatever the hell you want. If you need anything, you can call me at –" he rattles off a number. "Oh, and if I come home and find you've done something I don't like, I _will_ do something horrible to you. I'll be off work by two."

He dashes out the door and slams it shut. I stare for a few seconds, then turn my attention to my food.

After I eat seven pieces of French toast, I start planning my escape. His home phone is plugged in the corner of his bedroom. I pounce on it and realize I don't know anyone's phone number. Except Gregory's, because a few years ago the bastard figured out my old email somehow and sent me a ton of emails trying to figure out where I was.

I'm not desperate enough to call Gregory. I will never BE desperate enough to call Gregory, short of . . . no, I will just never be desperate enough to call Gregory.

I search the whole house for a phone book and eventually come up with a sticky note with Pip's name on it. I dial his number immediately.

"Damien!" he snaps at me. "Damien, what in the lord's name did you do to Christophe! If you've hurt him, I swear to god I'll be so angry-"

"I am alive, Pip."

"Oh." He pauses. "Any particular reason why you didn't come back last night? Kyle's worried sick. They all are, actually. Asked me if I'd seen you."

I told Kyle where I was going yesterday before I left.

"Damien captured me. 'e says 'e does not trust me enough to let me go."

"I'll talk to him," Pip says. "Give him the phone."

"'E left. I zink 'e's at work. 'e as a spell on me so I cannot leave ze 'ouse. Can you take ze bus up 'ere or somezing to rescue me?" I hate depending on other people for help.

"Okay. I just need to get home first and get my stuff. I'll ask my foster parents if I can take their car."

"Zanks."

"I'll probably be there in two, three hours. He won't hurt you if you don't piss him off. Tell him I'm coming to yell at him."

"Zank you." It feels so weird to ask someone for help.

"Oh, and, about the thing . . . ?"

I remember the whole reason I'm in this situation. "Ah. 'e's killing heavenfilth, yes, but only the low heavenfilth and only ze ones zat attack 'im. Does zat make you feel bettaire?"

He breathes a sigh of relief. "Yeah, 'Tophe, it does."

He hangs up. I set the phone down and wonder if calling Pip belongs under the things that will piss Damien off. Oh, well. Hopefully Pip will be able to get me out of here.

I head outside for another smoke. Usually I'm not so much of a chain smoker, but the agitation won't leave me. Then I scrub the pan, and then half the dishes in the kitchen.

For the record, I am not a "housewife." Damien doesn't have a computer, his TV has two channels, and only the occasional basketball magazines offers entertainment value. I attempt to dig through the floor. It doesn't work – apparently I have to actually be physically connected to the earth to use my special magic powers that I still have no idea how to use.

Then the phone rings.

I pick it up. Pip's voice on the other end comes in ragged pants.

"'Tophe," he pants. "'Tophe, you've got to get out of there, fast."

"Wait. What ees going on? Tell me everyzing."

"These soldiers stormed our school . . .that kid Gregory, the one from La Resistance was with them . . . they demanded to know where you were . . . and they saw Butters and realized he was a hellspawn and . . . " A sob catches in his throat. I freeze.

"Pip. Eet ees okay. Just tell me everyzing."

"And then they hit Butters over the head with a gun and dragged him off into one of their vans. I tried to stop them but they shot me in the shoulder. Then the Gregory kid told me he would let Butters go if I just told them where you were, because they knew you'd stayed with me. I managed to repress my magic so they couldn't sense me, though the Gregory kid kept looking at me funny, and, oh god . . . " he starts to babble. "And oh god they were lying even when I told them they still took Butters away and it's so lucky Stan and them were skipping to deal with the zombies and oh my god Butters . . . "

"Pip! Calm down. You told zem where Damien's house ees?"

"Yeah . . . I'm so sorry, Christophe, they'll be coming." He lets out a groan of pain. "Oh my fucking god this hurts . . . a bunch of other kids are shot up, those soldiers are fucking crazy-"

I've never heard Pip swear before. "_Oui,_ I know. Get some treatment, Pip. I weel be allright."

"'Tophe!"

I pause before hanging up. "_Oui_?"

"Be careful . . ." He lets out a gasp. "Aw, fuck – Wendy, don't do that!"

I hear a high-pitched babble in the background.

"I 'ave to go-"

"Be careful of that Gregory kid . . . there's something wrong with him . . . " then the phone goes static-y.

I call Damien immediately. Thank the cocksucking asshole in the sky for my years of NCE (near capture experiences). I know to utilize my resources when I have to, and I seriously doubt Damien would enjoy a truck full of heaven's legions storming his apartment.

"Did you burn down the house?" he asks when he picks up.

"Zere ees no time for fucking around," I snap at him. "Gregory 'as figured out 'ere I am. 'e will be at your apartment soon." I don't doubt their ability to get to Damien's apartment in less than an hour.

"Gregory?"

"'e works for Yardale School." I growl when I realize he still doesn't get it. "Yardale school ees essentially the people who run God's army. If zey get 'ere and find out zat zis place reeks of Satan's fucking _son_, zen zey will do a lot more zan just capture me. Zey will 'unt you down until you are nothing more than a starving animal."

It takes him a second to respond.

"Any ideas?"

"Get ovairre 'ere immediately."

"Already on it."

"Good. As soon as you get 'ere, we will burn ze apartment down and 'ope ze smoke will destroy your scent. I don't zink Pip told zem you were ze antichrist."

"Pip ratted me, you out?" he hisses in frustration. I hear footsteps rap against pavement. He must be running, although he doesn't sound out of breath.

"From what I 'ear, zey were zreatening a friend's life for ze information. Oh, and zey'd just shot 'im in ze shoulder."

"_Motherfucker."_

"Just get 'ere fast. Actually, just take ze spell off me right now and I will burn ze 'ouse down myself."

"Can't. I have to be in physical contact with you."

"_Mozzerefucker."_

"I'm on my way," he snaps into the phone, and hangs up.

I use my shovel to break apart the furniture. My leg doesn't like the rebound of the physical force required, but I ignore the twinges of pain. I soon have a pile of broken wood in the middle of the living room

I search around the kitchen for the lighter I used for my cigarettes. It's under the refrigerator, somehow. My fingers shake as I spread the contents of a can of gasoline over the pile of wood.

Then I sense it.

The celestial magic is so strong it takes my breath away. Tingles prick up my arm. My throat feels clogged with a slick sweetness. I clutch at the kitchen table while my body grows used to it.

If I can sense them in my unawkened state, they must be less than a mile away.

I bolt for the door but Damien's spell throws me back into the house. I land in a heap and jump up, screaming French expletives. I hoist my shovel up and slam it into the floor. Wood cracks. I hit the floor again and again until a twelve inch hole cracks open, revealing . . . the concrete foundation.

And then I hear car doors open out in the street. How the hell did they get from here to South Park so fast? State of the art technology, developed by Yardale, of course. _Fuck._ I snatch up the cigarette lighter. I am not letting myself captured again. I am not going back to Yardale. _I am not._

I'm not suicidal. I just desperately do not want to be captured. Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind, my common sense screams that at least if I'm captured I'll have a chance for escape again. If I'm dead there's no chance.

But I can't go back. I can't.

I flick the lighter. Flame blooms out. I hear Damien shout outside, then hear footsteps as the angels accompanying Gregory chase after him. I don't have to look to see them. I've imagined this a hundred, thousand times before.

I bend down and touch the flame to the spilled puddle of gasoline.

_FWOOM._

Fire blazes up. The flames chew on the wood, spread to the floor, circle around me, a dozen feet high, punching through the ceiling. Heat licks at me. I can't help but laugh. It's so perfect for me to die by fire.

Then Gregory bursts into the room.

His very presence douses the flames. They bubble and fizzle away until Damien's apartment is left as smoldering wood.

I haven't seen him in nine years.

He's a least six inches taller than me, thin, with the same thick wavy hair and steel-blue eyes. He has a scar on his neck that winds over his collarbone. He wears a white collared shirt and black dress pants.

We're so opposite it almost aches.

My skin smokes red and burns, even though his presence has smothered the fire. He walks over to me, and, without a word, places his hand on my bare shoulder. My black shirt has mostly fallen off me, and strips of cloth smolder on the floor.

Magic surges through me. I close my eyes. The tingling feeling swamps my veins. My sense disappear, and for a few seconds, all I know is the warmth.

When the magic finishes coursing through him and his wounds are healed, the mole opens his eyes.

"Hello, Mole," Gregory says. His accent has not changed in the past nine years.

The mole says nothing.

Gregory hugs him. The mole stays rigid in his arms.

"Deed 'ou catch ze 'ellspawn?" he asks after a few seconds.

Gregory nods. "Took a dozen angels to bring him down. We're dragging him back to Yardale with that other Hellspawn."

"And _moi_?" the mole asks when Gregory pulls back.

Gregory smiles, flashing white teeth.

"You're coming with me."

**Duh duh duh! Who is little Christophe meeting? Why has Gregory been tracking Christophe down? What's going to happen to Damien now the angels have the son of Satan? Review if you care at all, and I might actually make my update by Friday night! (Or, um, Saturday night. Oops. -_-)**

**Thanks for reading~**

**~Liz out**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This is really, really late. Feel free to blame my Honors Algebra 2 class on the lateness. I hate math. Also, no little!Christophe scene this time. The next chapter will be entirely devoted to little!Christophe, however.**

**But . . . um . . . there's Gregory in this chapter. Yay!**

**Enjoy~**

Gregory reads over a file. The mole taps his fingers, but otherwise gives no sign of impatience. The room tastes of antiseptic. An air conditioner buzzes in the background.

This interrogation is going to be much worse than his recent skirmish with the police, because Gregory knows exactly what he is doing. Gregory knows how to hit the hardest.

The mole knows why Gregory is reading through his files, even though the English bastard must have those files memorized (hell, he probably wrote most of them himself). He is trying to trick the mole into panicking, into hyperventilating, into doing something stupid.

_No chance in 'ell._

So the mole plasters his best scowl across his features. He's a personality born of the defensive, made up of blatant lies, wary and watching. He doesn't give Gregory and edge. His eyes are a solid wall of gray.

They took his shovel, but the mole ignores the anxiousness churning in his stomach. They took his shovel, his rope, and even his fucking boots. He's in the 'school uniform' again. Black sweatpants, black tank top. He hasn't worn this outfit since he was seven years old.

He doesn't react to the loss of his shovel. He just waits for Gregory to collect his thoughts. Knowing the English bastard, he mapped out the events of this day ten years ago.

"Why were you with the Hellspawn?"

The question startles the mole. For a second, I just blink at Gregory. Then the bastard's blue eyes slice into mine and the mole goes on the defensive again.

"Damien?" the mole flicks his ruffled dark hair, relaxing his shoulders back into a fake casual position. "Eet was a zzshjob. Try-eeng to track down ze 'un who 'as been kill-eeng ze low 'eavenfeelth in ze area. I 'as 'ired by un frightened low 'eavenfeeth who wanted to know if 'e shared ze same fate. Zat is all."

"You're lying." Gregory doesn't bat an eye.

"Really? 'at makes you say zat?" The mole smirks.

"Because you wouldn't tell the truth unless I forced it out of you first."

The mole shrugs. "Ehhnnn, maybe I'm tired of zese games, _oui_? Maybe I want to rejo-een 'eaven's army."

"You don't want to rejoin."

"What makes you say zat?"

"Because you've been running from us for too long, Mole. And I know you."

The mole's playful expression twists into a snarl. "_You don't know me,"_ he snarls. "_You've never known me, 'eavenfilth_."

And Gregory sneers back, "And that's exactly what you are."

"Never," the mole hisses. "I am not one of zat cocksucker ass'ole's – _god's _- fucking slaves. I am myself. And you – _you_ – you're too weak, too fucking weak to evairre break free and fight. Zis is why I escaped and you never even tried."

For half a second, Gregory's façade drops, and the mole sees a freaked-out seventeen year old who's experienced way too much. Then Gregory lifts his chin, raises his eyebrows, and says, "Yardale has been interested in quite a long time as to how your powers are developing. They must have quite progressed by now, seeing as you could dig a twenty foot tunnel in a minute at the tender age of seven."

"Nice zzjob avoiding ze subject. And your powairres obviously 'ave developed. Yardale 'as been training ze zree of 'ou well, _oui_?" The words are bitter, but the mole flinches as his voice trails over the 'three of you.' Gregory sees the hesitation and attacks.

"Yes. Maria and Chase and I have all progressed to be quite proficient at the use of celestial magic."

The mole is silent for a second.

Gregory sits back in his chair.

The air conditioner hums.

Finally, I lean forward and rest my elbows against the table. "'ow are zey?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Maria. Chase. _'ow are zey_?"

"Maria and Chase are fine."

I know it's a lie. The hells of Yardale school haunt my nightmares. Gregory himself is proof of the hell the school forced on us, although I won't be able to get him to admit it.

"So zey're still alive."

Gregory nods. "They're back in New York, at the school."

"Tell me about zem."

"Tell me what I want to know first."

"Gregory." It's not a request, it's a fucking _plea. _

So he talks. He tells me about how the three of them have learned to use their powers to throw fire, to see in the dark, to heal, to create weapons, to fly on white swan wings like angels. He tells me about the three of them learning to fight with celestial swords and bows and arrows and knives, about battling the demons they encounter on earth. He tells me about preparing for the final battle and confirms my suspicions about the demons and low hellspawn hunting the angels and low heavenfilth.

Then he tells me about Chase, who's grown taller than anyone else Gregory has ever known (but is still the shy, gentle-hearted, way-too-mature kid he was ten years ago). He tells me a story about how Chase snuck out from the school and hitchhiked all the way to New Orleans when he first heard of Hurricane Katrina and how Chase saved countless lives from the first waves of the water.

I don't have to ask to know what kind of punishment Chase received for this fit of rebelliousness. I will likely receive the same punishment tenfold once Gregory is done with his interrogations and I'm sent back to Yardale.

The punishment – and Yardale's ability to track us down – are the reasons the others have not tried to escape.

Gregory steers clear of Chase's punishment. Instead, he moves onto Maria. Apparently, she's gotten even more full of herself and bossy with age. She's also shorter than me, he notes, which makes me scowl with disturbing familiarity. His jabs at my height when we were little kids now send my stomach into waves of nausea. My fingers touch the leather cord-necklace around my necklace. I've never taken it off. _Maria. Chase._

"It's your fault zey are in still in zere," I snap, a few a moments after he falls silent.

Gregory's eyes bore into me. "Christophe, you _know _why we can't escape."

He hasn't addressed me by my name in ten years, although we haven't held a conversation for nine of them.

"I could 'ave gotten you all out. But it wasn't part of your _plan_. Eet was too '_dangerous_.'"

"Christophe." Gregory grits his teeth. "What you did to escape would have killed the rest of us."

"You deedn't even _try_."

"Look what happened to you! So what if I didn't want us to try it! We would have died, _all of us_, even you if you tried to get us all out."

"Six children died for your plan. Six children died and you were too afraid to escape."

"It wasn't about fear, it was about being reasonable."

"_Oui_? And you're telling me ze life you live now ees better zan risking it all just once? I know your life makes 'ell look pleasant in comparison. 'ell, I've been zere, eet's not so bad compared to what you 'ave to survive by the Yardale school's laws. Is ze Greyson lady still . . . after you?"

He flinches. I wince and continue.

"You should 'ave risked it. Even deathz ees better zan ten years of slavery."

"Oh, and your life is so much better?" he snaps back, finally loosing his cool. "You've been hunted like an animal for the majority of your life. I know – I've been one of the people doing it! And-"

"At least I am free." I clench my fists. "Even zough I am 'unted, at least I am free."

"What kind of freedom is-"

"Ees zat why you 'unt me, Gregory?" My voice goes dangerous-soft. "Is it because you're so terrified of your own slavery but so used to clinging to it zat you want to drag anozzere into its' grasp?"

"No." He leans across the table. "It's because of what they will do to Maria and Chase if I do not."

This surprises me – the bastard has a shred of human decency? – but I keep my gaze stolid and steady.

"Ees zat what you tell yourself, Gregory? Or are you too afraid to admit zat you've grown used to ze collar around your neck?"

Gregory touches the metal as if by instinct, then pulls his fingers away. We were all forced to wear the metal collars since our first major escape attempt. Not only do they contain trackers, but they also can shock the living shit out of us. I don't have one on me again yet, but I know it's only a matter of time.

"Never," he says.

"Zen why don't you escape."

"They capture us too easily-"

"Bullsheet. Zey might 'ave caught Chase easily ze one time 'e managed to escape to go to New Orleans, but Chase deed not even take off 'is collar, 'e let zem capture him. I 'ave been running from you successfully for ten years. You 'ave not captured me until zis very day. Ten years, Gregory. Ten years of freedom. Why do you not escape?"

"Chase and Maria," he says.

I raise my eyebrows.

"If I tried anything, anything at all, they'd hurt them _so badly_. And I can't just take them with me. They rarely let all three of us together, and when we do, we're heavily guarded."

We stare at each other for a few seconds.

"One wonders," I muse, "'ow zey even expect us to fight for god when god's people are such fucking retarded jackasses all ze time."

Gregory laughs, short and fake.

"I wonder too," he says. "But now I can't escape, I can't go anywhere, it's too late. No matter how much-"

He looks up and stops. I glance behind me and see the camera in the corner of the room.

"Shit," he says. "I forgot about the camera-"

"Our voices-"

"Microphones, too." He shakes his head.

"Enough of this sentimental stuff. I have a job to do. And it is my job to make sure you tell us what we need to know." His gaze turns cold and hard again. "Most of all, Christophe, we need to know if you will work with us again."

I stiffen.

"You must know about the severance of the upcoming war. This is the ultimate battle between heaven and hell, between good and evil. You, Christophe Simon, are a High-Class Human-Turned Angel. You have ingested the soul of our savior. It is your duty to aid us in the upcoming battle."

"Fuck you," the mole says.

"You will aid us." Gregory crosses his arms.

"I will nev'airre aid ze Yardale school. You are zeire fucking lapdog for even consider'eeng eet!"

The mole jerks to his feet, hands slamming down on the table. He glowers at Gregory.

"Guards," Gregory says softly.

Four soldiers enter the room. The mole doesn't even try to struggle as they snap handcuffs over his wrists, jerking his arms behind his back and almost wrenching his shoulders out of their socket. Gregory's expression remains cold as the mole is manhandled.

"Perhaps a few days in the Fridge will help you reconsider." Gregory opens up the file in front of him and starts to look through it again.

"Fuck you, Gregory fucking Adams!" the mole shouts as the soldiers drag him from the cell. "_Viva la resistance_ and all zat fucked-up shit, _oui_?"

XXX

Don't know what time it is when they pull me out of the Fridge. I don't know what anything is.

It's been ten years since I last felt the bitter hell of the Fridge (there's an official name for the room, but us kids never bothered to learn it). Sometime during the last insert-period-of-time-here I lost my shirt, and whip burns run over my back. I haven't eaten in the same amount of time, haven't slept except for what I could catch in between the human-manufactured blizzard and the fake demons they make to test out our fighting skills.

The Fridge was the personal hell we were constantly threatened with as kids. I, the problem child, got to taste is plenty of times. It's the size of a football arena, but indoors and rigged to be constantly freezing. It's set up like a training arena, with fake demons to practice on. (yay).

They drag me from the Fridge after what is probably, after I am lucid enough to give a decent estimate, three and a half days. As a kid I never ended up in the Fridge for more than a few hours, and I usually had the use of my hands. Frostbite has already claimed most of my blackened arms and feet. Pain throbs up and down my body, then numbs me down to my core.

They take me to the health room just as my toes and fingers start to crumble off. An angel (I can tell by the wings) presses his hands against my shoulders and spends twenty minutes jolting energy and magic through me. The entire time I'm screaming curses in French and end up curled in a little ball, sobbing.

After my flesh is healed and pink, the angel/doctor leaves me on my cot with three happy meals. I get over the pain pretty fast at the opportunity of food. As I eat, I take the opportunity to inspect my surroundings.

There are about two dozen other patients. They all have the feel of low heavenfilth. Human, but different-enough smelling with pale enough skin and wide enough eyes to have celestial power.

Low Heavenfilth are essentially heaven-allied humans who managed to somehow ingest celestial power (using by eating an angel's/another low heavenfilth's flesh, although this is usually by accident). They're simple foot soldiers, useful if you want to drown the enemy in numbers. The ones here all suffer from burn wounds.

I deduce that I'm not in the Yardale school. I think Gregory dragged me to the station in California, which is similar but not as well-equipped. _Yay._

After I eat the three hamburgers and three bags of French fries, I pass out right on my cot. Wariness turns out to be pretty irrelevant when you haven't slept for more than four days.

A pinch-faced soldier wakes me up maybe two hours later. I swear Spanish and French at him, waking up all the other patients. Not nearly enough sleep.

"You're needed," he says. He taps the gun at his waist. "That's the reason we took you out of the Fridge in the first place."

See? Everyone calls it the Fridge.

"I zought you took me out of zere so I would'ent die."

He snorts, which _fills me with confidence._

"Fine," I mutter under my breath. Sometime during my foggy healing-the-black-from-my-body stage, someone stuck me in a new t-shirt and new sweatpants. When I swing myself out of bed, I feel immediately that while the angel healed my frostbite pretty well, he left the whip-wounds on my back, the fake-demon bites on my shoulder, the scratches over my face from fuck-knows-what and my bruised ribs from, again, fuck-knows-what. It had been a long time in the Fridge.

Bastard Angel. Couldn't fucking mend me all the way, only had to fucking fix the life-threatening stuff. I totter when I rise to my feet, and the soldier snorts when he sees me loose my balance.

Scowl. Suck in a deep breath. Arms out for balance. Wince – they're sore. Yawn. Stretch. Wince again.

"All right. Let's go."

I follow the soldier at a ridiculously slow pace out of the make shift hospital, down a vaguely familiar hallway, and up two excruciating flights of stairs. I do not see why we could not have taken the elevator until I ask the soldier and realize he is merely being an asshole.

My bare feet pad against the tiled floor. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. I shiver. The a/c still buzzes, reminding me of the cold of the Fridge.

Two soldiers stand with a woman in a business suit in front of a room marked 7-A. I freeze when I recognize the woman. Her piercing beauty, tall stature, and smirk makes it impossible not to place the ID tag to the face.

"Rita Greyson," I say.

With her high heels and model-like build, she's about Kenny's height. She towers over me. The pinch-faced soldiers directs me to limp over to her on sore legs.

She must be, what, twenty-eight by now? She freaks me out just as much as she did back then.

"Christophe Simon." She smiles and nods her head.

I try to punch her, but she grabs my wrist with lightning-fast reflexes. She was a high-ranked soldier at the tender of age of eighteen when I left Yardale ten years ago. She appears to have risen up even further, although she has not lost her skills with her promotions.

"Burn in 'ell_, beetch_," I spit, and yank my hand back.

The soldiers standing next to her tense, but she holds up her hand, warning them.

"We've had some trouble with interrogation," she says. "Gregory-"

"You don't have ze right to say 'is fucking name." I glare at her in undisguised loathing. If I had my shovel, it would be smashing her skull right now, no hesitations.

She smiles her slight smile again and continues, "Gregory tells me you have been uncooperative, but he believes you will be willing to help us out, to a certain extent-"

"You wish, _beetch_-"

"One of our other captives holds even more valuable information than you." She holds out a piece of paper. I stare at her. Her smile doesn't slip. She forces me to accept the paper by grabbing my hand and folding my fingers over it. I recoil from her touch but finally accept the paper.

"Ask him the questions on the paper and we won't throw you back in the Fridge." Then one of the soldiers opens door 7-A and shoves me inside.

XXX

Stan is in first place, which is sweet, because usually Kenny kicks ass at this game.

"How do you like this now?" His red car smashes into Kenny's green car. "Hah! Eat my rubber, Kenny!"

"Fuck you!" Kenny's car hits the back of his, but it's too late, Stan has already made it around the turn. He accelerates past the finish line.

YOU HAVE WON, the screen proclaims. YOU ARE A LOSER WHO NEEDS TO LEARN TO DRIVE FOR REAL. YOU HAVE WON. YOU ARE A LOSER WHO NEEDS TO LEARN TO DRIVE FOR REAL.

"Geez, it sounds like my mom," Stan mutters under his breath. "I'm gonna get my license soon, anyways."

"Yeah, sure you are." Kenny giggles into the flimsy collar of his hood while he maneuvers through the menu for another game.

"Stan?" Randy Marsh pokes his head into the living room, a cup of coffee in one hand.

"What, dad?"

"You know your little friend Butters?"

Stan sighs and massages his temples.

"What about Butters, dad?"

"Well, you know he was kidnapped by those terrorists last week, when they blew up your school and killed a third of your senior class and stuff?"

". . . yeah, I remember that, dad. That was the day the zombies ate all those kids over in North Park."

"Oh, yeah. Fun times. Well, anyway, he's been missing for a while, and we're worried the terrorists used him as a pagan sacrifice to their gods to rain hell down upon the earth."

". . . that's nice, dad."

Kenny sniggers. Stan elbows him.

"We were wondering . . . Butters' parents were wondering . . . if you boys were going to do anything about it."

Stan glowers at his father. "Do anything about it? Why the fuck would we do anything about it! They're fucking terrorists!"

"Stan! Watch the language!"

Stan fumes.

"I'm just saying," Randy continues. "Whenever strange things happen in this town . . . you always seem to do something about them-"

"That doesn't mean we **want** to do something about them."

"But Butters-"

"We would have no idea where to start."

"I still think you should do something."

"Why not you, dad? You're the freaking adult!"

Randy almost quivers.

With a sigh, Stan tosses aside his controller and says, "Come on, Kenny. Let's go to Kyle's."

Kenny rolls his eyes and follows him out the door.

XXX

Kyle's in his bedroom, doing his homework. The school was burned down so the teachers have been giving them their assignments. Kyle is the only one who has been doing them. What a nerd.

Kyle looks incredibly relieved when he sees it's just Kenny and Stan at the door. "Jesus Christ." He snaps his calculus textbook closed and flops back on the bed.

Stan flops down next to him, his arms outstretched, their hands brushing over each other. Kenny starts to dig through Kyle's top drawer, which he knows contains Kyle's supply of chocolate.

"I thought you were my mom again."

"Why?" Stan rolls over to look at his super best friend.

"She's been bothering the crap out of me. Keeps saying I need to take responsibility for my actions – even though I didn't even do anything! – and make you guys save Butters from those terrorists."

"Your parents, too?" Stan demands. He glances over at Kenny, who has an entire chocolate bar shoved into his mouth. "You, too, Ken?"

Kenny shakes his head and continues to eat.

"And I doubt the fatass has the same problem." Kyle rolls over onto his side so they're both looking at each other, maybe six inches apart. "His mom is such a pushover."

Stan nods in agreement.

"I just – I don't know, dude. They hurt Butters so bad-"

Stan winces at the memory. He still can't get Butters' cry for help -or the rivulets of blood pouring down his face as the soldier/terrorists hit him again and again- out of his head.

"Pip said something about them maybe working for heaven," he restates cautiously. They've discussed this before.

Kyle sighs. "I know. But . . . Jesus! The whole thing is just so freaking unorthodox. I don't want to think that the **good guys** deliberately beat the shit out Butters and killed like a third of our school."

"Maybe it's because we're hell-allied," Stan says.

"Yeah, I don't get any of that, either. And I'm supposed to be the smartest kid in the class."

"This is all way over our heads."

"But it's exactly what we're used to." Kyle sighs and closes his eyes.

After a few seconds of silence:

"Stan? Do you think we should do it?"

"Hmm? What?"

"Save Butters."

"Oh, yeah. Um. I don't know."

"I mean, if it would get our parents off our backs-"

"But it's so dangerous, man. Goddamn it, this whole thing is ridiculous."

Kyle moves his head forward until his forehead bumps against Stan's chin. It's the most comfortable position Stan has ever known.

"I don't know. I just don't know what to do."

"You've always been the good guy." Impulsively, Stan reaches up and pats Kyle on the head. "You're the one that has to deal with all the stupid morals and stuff."

Kyle scowls, his eyes still closed, which makes Stan grin.

"Kenny? What do you think we should do?" Stan calls.

Kenny is sitting in Kyle's desk, drawing on a piece of paper. "Wow, you're asking for my advice for once?" he teases.

"Come on, Kenny." Stan scowls.

"I dunno. Depends if you want your parents to bother you forever or not. They're just a bunch of terrorists/angels. We've taken on terrorists at least two dozen times before. Plus, we apparently have demonic powers. And even if we can't figure out how to use them, that's gotta account for something, right?"

"Ehhh . . . " Stan says.

"Yeah," Kyle says. "Kenny, you're right." And he opens his eyes. "Okay, let's go save Butters' ass _again_."

XXX

Room 7-A looks much the same as the interrogation room with Gregory. A table. Two chairs. But instead of the English bastard, it's Damien.

Of course.

He raises his eyebrows when he sees me. His smile quirks. "You look like veritable shit," he informs me.

"Fuck you."

I try the door. Locked. Fuck.

Warily, I sit down across from him and place the paper on the table in front of me.

"Zere are microphones in 'ere," I say.

He nods.

"Zese are ze questions I 'ave to ask you."

He shakes his head and gives a slight smile, then grabs the paper from me. He pulls a pen from his pocket and uses his back to shield his hands from the camera. "I'll answer this one." He circles one. "And this one. Not this one, though."

He slides the paper and pen back across to me. I look down in paper. While it sounded it like was circling it, he actually wrote around each question in loopy cursive. I read through his cursive, eventually decoding his messed-up handwriting.

_Any plans for escape?_

I shake my head. "No, zis is not good, zey will hurt me eef I do not make you answer all of zem."

_I'm completely under their control. No plans yet._

The glimmer in his eyes indicates understanding.

"Still," I continue. "I do not know why zey zink you would listen to me."

_Are we together on this?_

"I'll listen to you, if it'll get them to stop torturing me."

_Let's work together to get out of here._

"Zey tortured you?"

He smiles, tiredly. "S'all right, I'm used to it."

He _does_ look as shitty as me. Half his head has been shaved. Scars creep up over the right side of his face and disappear into his hair line. I think he's slept about as much as I have since I arrived here; maybe three hours total.

"They sliced off this side of my head." He points with his index finger, smirking. His finger trails over the scars.

"Brains on the ground, blood gushing, skull fragments, right eye falling out, everything." He stops his fingers and places his hands on the table.

"Fuck. I deed not need to know ze details."

"I didn't need to_ feel_ the details."

I wince. His grin returns, even wider.

"Why deed ze torture you?"

"Well, the angels pinned me down when they first captured me and made me swallow a bunch of holy water-"

"-zat-"

"Yeah. It actually fucking works. Eff emm ell. I was out of it for a while, and when I managed to regenerate the majority of my internal organs they had this is around my neck.

I notice a metal wire around his neck.

"It's playing a prayer over and over again," he says, bemused. "Quiet enough that you have to be close to me to hear it. I can't rip it off for some reason, I've tried. The speakers are really tiny. Hurts like a bitch, actually. Anyway, when I started hearing the scripture I flipped out, but this thing flattens my powers. I ended up screaming and kicking stuff in this cell they looked me in for a couple hours. Then they dragged me away and beat me up for questioning. I didn't answer any of their questions, so they ran electricity through me for a couple days, then finally got fed up and sliced my head off. Apparently, there's a bomb implanted in my skull, now, and if I leave this building it'll blow up."

I stare at him for a few seconds. He drums his fingers against the metal table.

"You 'ave 'ad a terrible week," I observe.

"You could say that." Somehow, he smiles. "My dad is _pissed_, I bet."

"What were you doing on earth, anyway?"

"Hey, I'm not supposed to take over the world and bring the apocalypse until we win the final battle against heaven." He flashes a smirk. "Since I'm a teenager, my dad's going through this gay-ass phase where he insists I have to learn 'responsibility' or something, hence the shitty apartment and the . . . argh . . .fucking job. Do you realize I've had to talk with humans every day for the past eight months? I _hate_ humans!"

"I'm 'uman."

"No, you're not. You're a heavenfilth."

"I'm not like ze other 'eavenfilth."

"That's why you're cool." He leans back in his chair and smirks. Then his expression drops. "Oh, shit, was that one of their questions?"

I glance over the sheet and grind my teeth in frustration. "_Oui."_

"Fuck. I actually gave them some answers!"

"Fuck, I actually 'elped zem get some answers!"

We glower at each other. Our expressions morph into tentative smiles at the same second.

"I guess we should . . answer zese questions . . . " I say hesitantly after a few seconds. _I hope he translates it into 'we should figure out a way to escape._'

He nods. "If it'll keep them from decapitating me again, then, sure."

I look down at the sheet.

"Ze first one is, 'why are you are on earthz' and we already know zat zis answer is mundane. I still can't see why you'd want to be here, wizth all ze gun-crazy 'umans on every street corner." _There are many guards._

He bobs his head, almost imperceptibly. "Eh, what can I say, the humans aren't a problem for me most of the time. I can just blow them up if they piss me off most of the time. When I'm in a bad mood, though they suck to deal with. Depends on whether or not my_ mp3's_ broken. Usually I can just glare them away, but it's more effective when I've got tunes in, you know?"

_I can blast humans most of the time._ And it seems like the scripture is seriously messing with his powers, although not to the point where he's totally useless.

"I have music, too, sometimes, although I only 'ave an ipod shuffle and eet's broken – it just plays music randomly. And it can only play one specific song."

_I have powers, too, but not much, I can't control it, and I can only do one specific thing._

"Ooh, that sucks. What song? At least it's not something annoying, is it?"

"No . . . it's nice to listen to while I run." _It's an evasive ability_. I realize our conversation is becoming increasingly transparent. "Wow, I can actually 'old a conversation withz you, 'ellspawn."

"Yeah, and you're not too annoying, heavenfilth." His cocky smile greets me. He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. "Almost makes it possible to remember we're in the middle of fuck-knows-where and having the shit being tortured out of us by bloodthirsty angels."

"Ahhh. Don't remind me."

"You're fault." He stretches across the table and snatches the paper from me. As he brings it back towards him, he says, "But I do like talking to you. It's better than talking to them." And for some reason, I feel there is no double meaning or coded answer behind that statement, just Damien telling the truth.

He reads the next question out loud.

"What are your father's plans for the final battle." He raises his eyebrows and glances at me. "They really expect me to answer this."

I shrug. "Zey expect us to do a lot of things. I don't know if we can do all ze zings zey want us to do. Zey want me to fight witzh zem for ze final battle."

"That's nice. Are you going to?"

I laugh for a solid twenty seconds.

Then I say, "And you?"

He freezes. "What?" he says with false confusion.

"Ze final battle. Are you fighting?"

"I'm the antichrist. There's no debate."

"I ate God's soul for an entire year and look at me now. I would say zere is debate on everything."

He looks at me for a few seconds. I realize he's trying to figure out how to answer my question without revealing any information to the people listening to us.

"Of course I'm going to fight for my father," he says after consideration. "You heavenfilth piss me off. Honestly, you, Jesus, that cocky Pip bastard – you all _think _you're so _special,_ but you're really just quite boring and annoying."

_That cocky Pip bastard._ Not the most accurate description of Pip out there. I remember his words from before. _Pip's special._ He's lying right now. His opinions on the war are . . . open for debate.

Whatever the hell gets me (us) out of here the fastest, I don't care.

"So I cannot convince you otherwise."

"Like you would anyway, heretic."

I shrug. "Zat's me."

Then, "Zat was ze zird question. Whezzaire or not you would consider 'elping 'eaven's army in the war willingly."

He smirks and snatches the paper back from me. "The fourth question is whether or not I'll help heaven's army unwillingly. Hahhah. Real hilarious, angel dudes." He starts 'doodling' on the paper, using his back to shield his hand again.

"Give zat back!" I fake-steal the paper from him and read what he's written. _Anyone else here? You mentioned Pip's friend-_

"Next question." I make a huge show of circling questions two and three with my pen, at the same time covering my word with my arm. I take Damien's suggestion and write in curly cursive while pretending to circle my questions. I've always been terrible at cursive. "Ze next question is about 'ell's defenses. How many demons you 'ave, et cetera." At the same time I write, _Butters. He's one of the hellspawn. Kind of a pussy. I don't know how much he knows about his powers. He's probably here, although I can't sense him._

"I'm not going to answer questions that will help you guys in the oncoming war. And give that back. I want to finish my doodle." He rips the paper from my hands, along with the pen.

"Zat's a very ugly sunflower doodle," I inform him.

"Yes. Yes it is." He starts to scratch on the paper. "I hate the sunflowers in real life, though. They're so pathetic compared to, say, French Toast. Now that's an awesome food."

I remember the French Toast I made him the morning before this all went even more fucked up than it already was.

"Though I guess sunflowers are good for something. I just can't think of anything." He yawns.

"I don't know." I shrug. "I hate your doodle, too."

He scowls. We've decided: _Butters is useless. _

"'owever," I add. "Ozzare sunflowers . . . might come to zis sunflower's rescue." Okay, that wasn't blatant _at all_. Completely meaningless. Arrrg.

He gives me a look and mouths, "the South Park hellspawn?"

I nod imperceptibly.

He shrugs, then mutters, '_they're useless._'

"Not quite. And I do not 'ave any ideas."

The door swings open. We both turn to see Greyson standing in the doorway, flanked by her soldiers.

"I don't know what you two are talking about , but I do know it makes no sense and is not want I want you to be talking about it." She pulls me up by my collar. I snarl and try to turn on her, but she grabs my neck and keeps me fully in place, dragging me out of the room. The soldiers flock around Damien, blocking him from my gaze. I don't even get to give him a snarky comment.

"Am I still going back to the Fridge?" I ask.

"You didn't succeed in extracting our desired information from him, so of course." She deposits me in the hallway. I resist the urge to fight back, knowing if I do she WILL have me tortured and it WILL be painful. The urge is so tempting, especially since there are only half a dozen soldiers idling in the hallway.

"Tell you what," Greyson says chirpily. "Since you got _some _information from him, we'll let you use your hands this time."

The soldiers haul me off.

**What would you guys think of a fic where Cartman's schemes actually worked, he was well on his way to ruling most of North America, and the only thing standing in his way was the last remnants of La Resistance? I've been throwing this idea around for a few days. (I would, of course, not let it interrupt updates for CTTG – my math class can do that for me). **

**Review and tell me! **

**The next chapter will be mostly about little!Christophe. I should have it up by Friday –I'm on Spring Break right now.**

**Until then~**

**~liz out**


	7. Chapter 7

**. . . this is late. All little!Christophe this chapter. Also an OC. They are not toxic. I know what a Mary Sue is. Enjoy. **

God is an animal-like creature made up of multitudes of body parts. A squirrel, a hippopotamus, a cat, an elephant. He's about as tall as Christophe and he speaks with a deep, Morgan-Freeman-esque voice.

He greets each of the children with a lifting, "_Hello_," and by their name. Christophe huddles behind his designated caretaker/teacher, Ms. Gredonaus. She smiles down at him, probably thinking he's finally cowed into submissiveness.

He's not. He just can't help but stare at the creature who has made his life hell for the past five months._ This_ is God? _This_ is the cocksucking asshole telling Mr. White how to screw with their minds?

The man in the suit, Mr. White, steps forward and bows. "You wanted to see the ten of them." The corner of his mouth quirks. "These are the ten children who have been consuming your soul, my lord."

If Christophe ever had a doubt that what has been happening to him and the other kids is fucked up, the doubt vanishes in this second.

They kidnap forty children from their homes, kill all but ten of them, and then subjugate the ten of them to hell on earth. In the past five months he's had to battle demons with nothing more than his fists and his wits. He's watched his friends be pummeled, felt the blows himself. He's been trained far beyond the physical constraints of the average seven-year-old. They beat him for his will, for fighting back, for mouthing off. He's discovered (and felt) the meaning of the word 'pedophile.' He's developed a healthy respect for torture.

He's gone through hell and back for no apparent reason.

The 'teachers' and Mr. White obviously aren't human, or at least mundane. Everyone at the Yardale school is abnormal.

And now they're taking the ten of them to see God.

_What the hell?_

He clenches his fists. "You are God?" he snaps.

God turns to look at him, a crooked smile on his animal lips. Before he can says something in that oh-so-charming voice of his, Christophe stomps out from behind his teacher and started screaming.

"Cocksucking asshole! Eet's because of you I watched my leettle brozzere die! It's because of you we've all been put zrough 'ell for ze past five monzs! Don't give me your reasoning! I know you 'ave excuses, but I don't want to 'ear zem. Burn in 'ell, _beetch_!"

He spits at him, spits on God.

God doesn't look the slightest bit surprised. Before he can respond, the man in the suit grabs Christophe around the waist and yanks him up. Christophe cries out, squirming, but Mr. White is strong.

"I'll take care of this, my lord," he says smoothly.

"Let him go, _maricon_!" Maria screams. She runs at Mr. White with her fists clenched. Her teacher grabs her and hauls her back.

"Maria!" Chase runs for her but his own teacher kicks him down. He lands on the floor-like clouds and doesn't fight back. Only Gregory stays quiet, but his steel-blue eyes glimmer with anger.

"Have some control over your 'students'," Mr. White snaps. Then he drags Christophe off.

XXX

An elevator is situated in the middle of the eerie whitish clouds that make up heaven. Mr. White thrusts Christophe inside and follows after him. He pushes the button marked 'Earth' and the doors ding shut. They start to drop. Christophe starts to feel uncomfortable in his pressed-collar shirt and combed-back hair. The silence claws at him.

"You've always misbehaved, Christophe," Mr. White says finally. "But I thought you at least knew how to keep quiet when it really mattered."

"Fuck you."

"See? That's exactly what I mean. Just don't know how to shut up." He is silent for a few more seconds. Christophe shifts his weight back and forth.

"We are going to have to punish you," he says finally.

Christophe's heart accelerates, pounding through his chest. He clenches his teeth. "Well . . . zen . . .do eet . . ." he mutters. "Punish me."

"What could possibly begin to teach you a lesson? We've put you in the Fridge before; we've let the pedophiles have some fun with you; we've starved you for days on end; we've beaten you within an inch of your life." The man in white shakes his head.

"I 'ave a personal preference for ze Fridge," Christophe snarks.

The man in white looks at him and smiles with inhumanly sharp teeth. "I think I know exactly what to do with you."

XXX

The knife in his in his hands doesn't feel like a deadly weapon. It feels like heavy a weight dragging him to the ground.

He grits his teeth and holds his ground.

He's back in the Fridge. They turned the heat up and gave him a jacket, so he can actually feel his fingers and toes. Man-made snow scuffs around his boots as he walks.

There isn't any of the usual training shit they put him through; usually mechanical 'demons' popping up out of nowhere, random blizzards from the snow machine.

Instead there's silence. His breath heaves in and out of his lungs, chill white poofing into the open air.

And then there's the kid in front of him.

She's probably ten or eleven years old. She wears a flower-print dress and shivers, her arms around her torso. She stares at him, terrified as he approaches.

A voice booms through the arena from the speakers above. It's Mr. White's.

"THIS GIRL IS NOT HUMAN. SHE IS LOW HELLSPAWN."

Christophe eyes her. _She's_ a hellspawn? _She's_ one of the despicable beings the Yardale school has been telling them about?

"CURRENTLY, YOU HAVE THE POWER OF A LOW HEAVENFILTH, ALTHOUGH IN THE FUTURE YOU WILL BE MUCH MORE."

The girl ogles Christophe right back. Her pinched, white face makes it look like she hasn't been fed in days. She might not've – the Yardale school is notorious about forgetting that whole 'requiring sustenance to survive' thing. They always forget to feed the ten kids.

"YOU WILL EVENTUALLY HAVE TO ELLIMINATE MANY OF THESE LOW HELLSPAWN. TODAY, HOWEVER, YOU MERELY HAVE TO KILL ONE."

Mr. White clears his throat. Static crackles through the Fridge. Christophe and the hellspawn girl both flinch.

"TODAY, YOU MERELY HAVE TO KILL THIS GIRL."

XXX

After excess swearing on Christophe's part, the two children decide the entire situation is ridiculous.

They huddle against the wall in the far corner of the arena. The wind starts to pick up. Christophe figures the 'teachers' are going to turn the Fridge back on, make it hellish again. They shiver as the wind slices through their clothes. She's wearing only the flimsy dress while he's got good, sturdy trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, boots, and a jacket.

He doesn't give her his jacket.

They stare at the snow around them for a few minutes. Emptiness rings in the air, punctuated by the occasional wheezing of wind.

The low hellspawn clears her throat and says. "Um . . . I'm Emma."

She has an American accent. New York, he thinks. He's figured out by now that the Yardale School is somewhere in New York, so maybe they just snatched up the nearest low hellspawn they found.

"Christophe." He crosses his arms and spreads his legs out over the ground. Before he sat, he cleared away the foot of snow on the ground in a two-foot radius, so he and Emma are forcibly curled up next to each to maximize the only available patch of dry ground.

"Are you going to . . . ?" Her voice cracks.

"Don't be stupid, 'ellspawn." He snorts. "I am not like zey want me to be."

"Oh." She falls silent for a moment. Then she gives him a tentative smile. She's missing three teeth.

Because she's older than him, she's about five inches taller, but he feels like she's much smaller in that moment. He doubts she's had the insane training like he has; she's probably just a normal person who only has the vaguest idea what's going on. All in all, he decides, she's kind of pathetic.

Not her fault. But she's still not useful here.

"I'm really hungry," Emma mutters. She pulls her knees closer to her chest. "And cold."

"Zat's nice."

He closes his eyes.

The Fridge is an arena about the size of a football field. The ceiling is about fifty feet overhead. There are air vents on the ceiling, as well as machines that produce snow. In the arena are traps rigged to explode and mimic demon attacks, although he's not sure if they're turned on. There is a door on the eastern wall of the arena, but it's password protected and nine digits long. Also, it can't be opened from the inside. How can he escape . . . ?

"Can I have your jacket?"

He opens his eyes.

Emma's lips are turning blue.

"No."

Mr. White said he has to kill Emma to get out of here. He doesn't want to kill her (she's just a bit too humanoid for him). He's totally under Mr. White's control. The thought makes him grit his teeth and curl his toes in his beats.

Can he do something else to make Mr. White let him go? Why does Mr. White want him to kill Emma, anyway? For practice? Couldn't he have picked a less . . . _pathetic_ low hellspawn?

And Christophe realizes that's exactly the point.

Mr. White doesn't want Christophe to practice killing hellspawn. He wants to break Christophe's will to fight back.

Christophe's hands tremble. He sucks in a deep breath and tries to keep from screaming his rage.

"Christophe?"

Emma has started to suck on her fingers. He knows from experience that the saliva eventually makes the cold worse.

He gives her his jacket.

XXX

The first trap goes off about an hour after they've been huddling there.

Out of nowhere, a mechanical noise clicks and the machine explodes in front of them.

He knows it's not a real demon because it doesn't smell like it and a real demon wouldn't try to hurt Emma, but it sure as hell looks like it. A million arms. Piercing eyes. Clacking teeth. It hisses and advances on them.

Christophe keeps his calm, even though Emma screams and cowers behind him. Her reaction surprises him a bit. The only two girls he's had contact with in the past five months, Maria and Lilac, are nothing like this. Lilac's too dead to feel fear, Maria's too alive to notice her own panic. But Emma just clings to his shirt and watches the mechanical demon with huge, wary eyes.

It's the weirdest feeling ever, having someone be so entirely dependent on him.

The mechanical demon breaths fire at them. He ducks, dragging Emma down with him. Snow crunches against his face and shoulders and hands. Heat flares over him, scorching his back.

He instinctively rolls over to let the snow seep into his searing back. It numbs the screaming pain.

The mechanical demon towers over them, steam pouring from its mouth. One of its arms stretches out.

He latches onto the arm. It's about as wide as he is, proportional to the eighteen-wheeler-sized mechanical demon. A hand tries to snatch at him, but he twists around it and starts to scurry up the arm. His feet smack against the freezing metal. Another arm hurdles for him. He hooks an elbow around the mechanical arm he's climbing on, but can't duck out of the way in time. The second arm smashes into him, knocking his body back, snapping at least one rib.

He flies off the first arm, but his elbow, still snagged around the first mechanical arm, holds him in the air. He screams as his arm pops out of its socket. Pain flashes through him.

He dangles in the air. The mechanical demon brings him up to its eyes level, twenty feet off the ground. Its mechanical eyes blink. They're huge, the size of his head. Its tongue flicks out, and he watches it glow vaguely as its sensors process the air around it.

With a roar, he unhooks his arm and lunges forward. He slams onto the demon's right cheek. An arm curls around his waist, but he pulls one of his knives from his boot and drags it through the thing's eye, twisting it through the metal.

_These things are designed to die like real demons; these things are designed to die like real demons._ The words run through his head like a chant, a prayer.

He hits something unyielding, snaps his knife against it. The mechanical demon lets out a whistling scream and the arm around his waist hurls him against the wall.

He blacks out.

When he comes to, Emma crouches over him. Her cheeks are flushed. "You killed it," she whispers.

The mechanical demon lies in a heap of metal a few dozen feet away. He manages to sit up, and nearly throws up from the pain. Several ribs are cracked and broken – he's lucky none of them punctured his lungs. Bruises coat his back. His right elbow needs to be popped back into place.

"I need to get my knife back," he mumbles. He stands up, Emma supporting him. Then he really does throw up.

XXX

"No! Fucking 'ell! You're do-eng eet wrong!"

"I don't know how else to do it!"

"Not like zat! Aaah!"

He pushes her away with his good arm, and she falls back into the snow. He clutches at his injured arm, tears in his eyes, his breath short.

"I-" She lifts her hands.

"Don't! You do not know what you are do-eeng!"

She flinches back. He glowers at her.

After a few minutes of silence, she scoots over to sit next to him again. He doesn't argue with her.

"I really need to fix that arm," she says.

He wants to tell her to fuck off, but she can't because they're both trapped in this arena together, and if she moves around to much she might set off another mechanical demon.

"Let me try one more time," she says.

This is the point where he learns Emma is a fucking stubborn bitch who never gives up.

XXX

"Ahh! No! You're do-eeng eet wrong again! Stop!"

"I've almost got it!"

"No!"

He yanks his arm back and glowers at her. She crosses her arms and glowers at him. Both of them pout, lower lips out. Both of them narrow their eyes and glower. He's still wincing in pain.

She sighs and breaks the glower first, closing her eyes. Probably trying to be the mature one – well, she_ is _three years older than him.

"How'd you become low heavenfilth?" she asks after a few minutes.

He gives a noncommittal grunt in reply.

"Fine, then, be a dick." She yawns and shivers at the same time, then pulls her legs up to her chest and leans back against the arena wall. Their shoulders almost touch.

"I was starving one night. Dug through the garbage can. Ate something that looked like half-rotten pork. It was half-rotten demon meat, actually. Grossest thing ever."

Inadvertently, he makes a face. She smiles in triumph.

"You're an orphan?" he asks after a few seconds.

"No," she says. "My family's on welfare. Most of it goes to my mom's booze."

"Ah." He closes his eyes. Pain from his wounds throbs through him, but he ignores it, somehow. "For me, we were just poor. Zat's why zey sold me to ze Yardale school."

"These guys who have us captured?"

"_Oui._ And zey 'ave been feeding me bits of god's soul."

"Ew! Isn't that, like, blasphemous?"

"I suppose," he says. "But I zought you were an 'ellspawn."

"I am. I think. I guess. I don't really understand any of this."

"Who does," he mutters under his breath.

"We are supposed to 'ate each ozzaire, I believe." He holds his one good arm around himself. He wants one of those fucking cigarettes Gregory acquired for his birthday the other night. They're damn good at calming. "Zis not too difficult, see-eeng as I already 'ate you."

"Hey! You're the one who's going to kill me!"

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not."

"You are."

They glower again.

"That guy said," she says in a slow, patronizing voice. His fingers twitch. The murderous expression twisting his features makes her change her tone. "That the only way he would let you out would be if you would kill me."

"Zat does not mean I am going to kill you."

"Yes, you are, unless you want to spend the rest of your life in here."

"I would razzere spend ze rest of my life in 'ere zan kill you," he says.

"Huh." She's gotten closer in the last thirty second, close enough for him to feel her breath on his shoulder. "Why?"

"Because eet's wrong. And even zough you are 'ellspawn, you are not a 'orrible person. Just razzere annoying, and pathetic, and a pussy, and a whiny beetch."

"Hey!"

And with that, she grabs his arm and pops it back into place. He screams and clutches at it, pain splicing through him for one horrible moment, then fading. She sits back and grins triumphantly.

His arm feels about four hundred times better. Still, all he does is stare at her. Her grins slips.

Their silence is broken by the simultaneous rumbling of their stomachs. Christophe grits his teeth and speaks with a clenched jaw.

"Emma," he says. "Give me my jacket back."

XXX

Of course, he ends up giving it right back to her as soon as the blizzard starts.

They build a makeshift igloo and huddle inside. Outside, the wind and snow beats against their igloo. Every few minutes it'll break through a chunk of wall and flush cold air through their shelter. Then Emma, because she is taller and less injured, goes out and fixes it, for which she claimed 'coat rights.'

They ignore their general annoyance for each other and huddle together when Emma's not trying to fix their shelter.

They're both starving now, a heavy, hollow ache inside. They both know hunger pretty well, so they know how to grip down on it, to force it away. It's still been, what, two days they've been in here without food? It still sucks.

They suck on ice for water, even though it freezes up their insides and makes him feel shittier. They can't survive without water. They can't survive without food, either, but there isn't any available.

The storm rage, a howl drowning out their voices. They don't bother to talk. He pulls her against him and shares his body with her. She opens the jacket and zips it around them both. They're half-hugging, half-cuddling. Her bare legs are white in the freezing cold. Fun place to be wearing a floral dress.

Her teeth chatter. He presses his face against her shoulder, which makes her yelp from the cold. He finds this amusing.

Finally, she says, "Christophe?"

"What?" He almost has to shout it over the screaming wind.

"Please don't kill me."

"I already sad I wouldn't, stupid."

"Yeah, but . .. . please. I don't want to die."

"I promise not to kill you." He yawns. "Zere. Stop being such a whiny pussy about it."

XXX

Sleeping is tricky.

The cold slashes through their bones and sends aching, gnawing pains through their insides. He can't stop his teeth from chattering, even though he barely has the strength to keep his eyes open.

She's warm and cold at the same time. He nuzzles against her, head into her shoulder. She hugs him against her. Their igloo has long since cracked open, but neither of them feel like fixing it.

Once he's determined he's not going to go to sleep any time soon, he mutters, "So, what deed it feel like to become an 'ellspawn, anyway?"

She looks down at him. Frost has coated over her eyelashes; she has to blink to see. She considers his question for a few seconds.

"I ate the rotten meat gunk," she said, "and a few hours later I was doubled over with pain. I realized that it was probably really stupid of me to eat that, and I thought I was going to die. I curled up with pain slicing through me in an alley for several more hours, and when I woke up I could . . . feel and smell."

"Feel and smell?"

"I can feel people's energy. I can tell which side they're on. I can tell where they're allied and how much power they have. The power, I can smell it, you know. From miles away."

"Can you smell me?"

"Of course."

". . . I 'ave powairre?"

". . . yeah. Quite a bit, actually." She chews on her lips and stares at the 'door' of their igloo, as if deciding whether or not to fix the huge whole in the ceiling.

". . . more zan most low 'eavenfilth?"

"Yeah. A bit more."

"It only took you a few 'ours to become an 'ellspawn."

"Yeah."

"Ze Yardale school 'as been feeding me bits of God's soul for _monzs,"_ he says.

She's silent.

"What does zat mean?"

"I don't know," she says. "I guess it means you're going to be really messed up, maybe."

He smiles without humor.

XXX

When the blizzard finally dies down, they've been in the Fridge for at least two days, maybe more. Hunger claws at his insides until he feels almost nauseous. He's felt hunger like this before, and so he can clamp down on it. Emma must be used to it, too, because she doesn't complain. She's stopped complaining as much in the past few hours, even though he's snatched his jacket back from her.

They blink in the artificial sunlight. He glances up at the gray roof of the Fridge. He flips off the video cameras.

XXX

They chew on snow for moisture. They huddle together to keep warm. They make pathways on the ground, finding frozen earth beneath the snow.

The hunger won't leave. It never does.

XXX

It's the fourth mechanical demon he's faced in the past three days. This one is small, less dangerous, the size of a large dog. But in his weakened state, he hardly has the strength.

It tackles him back and pins him against the ground. Mechanical parts click as it peers down at him. He struggles, but metal grinds into his skin, piercing flesh. He's too afraid to scream, too afraid to curse, too afraid to do anything but stare at his impending death.

Emma stands back, clutching at the hem of her dress, eyes huge.

"Help me!" he yells.

She starts forward, slowly. Her foot slips. She trips and hits the ground.

The mechanical beast thrusts its jaw forward. He jerks his head to the side at the last second.

Teeth graze over his cheek. Flesh rips away.

He heaves it up and throws off him, snatching his knife from his belt and leaping for the beast. They roll over and over, bodies battering against the snow. He twists his hands around its spindly neck, pulls, yanks, jagged metal cutting into his fingers.

It breathes fire at him. Flames scorch the right side of his face, burn his hair, burn his flesh. He's numb to the pain, numb to everything thanks to the adrenaline shrieking through him.

He rips off its mechanical and tosses it aside.

For a second, he lays back in the snow, panting. He closes his eyes.

Then the pain rips through him.

He jolts up, a low groan escaping his throat. He clutches at the right side of his face. Liquid oozes over his face. His face and body is alive with the burning, screaming, shrieking-

Emma hurries over to him, arms outstretched. "Christophe-"

"Don't!" He stumbles to his feet and takes two steps away from her. The sparking metal pieces of demon lie around his feet.

"You're hurt-"

"Because you 'ad to fucking trip when I needed you," he snaps. "You're useless! You cannot even fight! You deed not even try! You just watched me almost be destroyed and you deed nothzing!"

Her hands drop to her sides.

"Christophe-"

"_Fuck_ you!"

He stalks to the opposite side of the Fridge. It's not until he's two hundred feet away does he let himself start screaming.

XXX

His ripped-up cheek has to be dealt with first. Emma's wearing his jacket, and there's no way in hell he's going to ask her politely to give it back to him.

He rips off the hem of his battered t-shirt and presses the fabric against his cheek until it stops bleeding. Mostly. When he pokes his tongue against the inside of his right cheek, he feels open air.

The sensation makes him feel so dizzy with fear he almost passes out, so he stops doing it. The damned mechanical demon-dog ripped right through his cheek.

The burns over the right side of his face have sealed his right eye closed. He can't see out of it. He gingerly slides snow over his face. It hurts so bad he has to stop and lean back against the wall of the Fridge.

"Fuck," he mutters.

The wind picks up again, teasing at his clothes. It stings against the ruined side of his face.

"Fuck!"

It's hard to speak when part of your mouth is burned.

XXX

The fourth day in the Fridge.

Once he went three days without eating, back when he was trying to be initiated into a gang of neighborhood boys and was competing with all the other newbies to see who could survive out in the woods the longest.

(He didn't win).

He doesn't know a hunger like this, one that weighs down his limbs and pulses lethargy through him.

He closes his one good eye, feeling like he's had a visit from the sandman.

"Christophe!"

He opens his good left eye. Emma stands not twenty feet away.

"Your face is turning black." Her fists clench at her sides. "Please, I can help."

"No, you can't," he spits. "You know notzing."

She opens her mouth but he cuts her off.

"Go back to your side of ze Fridge, beetch."

Her mouth is a hard, thin line. She turns.

"Wait."

She looks back, mouth starting to open in the start of a gay little speech.

"Give me back my jacket."

XXX

At least with his jacket, the cold is almost bearable. Almost. The blizzard never comes again, thank god, but his fingers and toes are blackening. He has to assume Emma's in the same position. He can't feel his digits anymore, can barely move his hands and feet.

It's the fifth night of this hell. He curls into a ball, not moving, barely breathing. He half wishes he could fall asleep and never wake up. Then he hates himself for even thinking it.

Artificial snowflakes flicker over his back. Snow patterns his shirt and arms. He knows it must be cold, but he honestly can't feel it any more.

He closes his eye. Eye open or closed, it's the same blackness.

A buzzing noise bleeds through the night. He sighs. Some part of his mind tells him it might be important, but he can't bring himself to care.

Something taps against his wrist. He can barely feel the pressure.

The buzzing hums in his ears. He wishes it would shut up so he can sleep and never wake up.

Something presses down his back. He makes out the vague sound of the fabric of his shirt ripping open. Cool metal tickles against his numb back. Eh. Whatever.

Something hot and beautiful and _aw, fuck, painful!_ slashes over him. He twists onto his back. A mechanical demon stands over him, a praying-mantis styled creature with dark, metal pinchers. One of them drips with his blood. He feels the blood running down his back. It sliced him!

For a second, all he can do is stare at it.

His hand goes for his knife, but there's nothing at his belt. Oh, yeah. He left his knife back with Emma, back after he killed the fake dog demon. Um. He'll probably die now.

Woah, that sucks.

He just smiles grimly at the praying mantis fake demon, more than a little bit broken up on the inside.

It extends a pincher, the one bloodied by his wounds. The metal end touches his face. One jerk and it could snap his head off. Kill him that easy.

And it'd be over. All over.

Then something sharp and flashy jams into the fake demon's eye.

There's a screaming in his ears. High, female. The person holding the knife grinds it against the monster's eye, reaching into the mechanics inside it and tearing out its false brain. Wire hits the snow in front of him. Sparks fly. Then the metal husk topples over into the snow, and dies.

And in front of them is Emma. Her chest is heaving. Blood runs down her face, sticky in her eyes. She meets Christophe's gaze, frantic.

He looks at the fingers gripping the knife. They're blackened.

XXX

"'ow deed you . . . ?"

"Two of them attacked me. I managed to kill one, but the other ran off and I knew it would go for you."

"Oh."

Silence.

"You . . . killed one."

"Yeah." She swallows. "Yeah, I fucking did."

XXX

At first, they're curled up next to each other, sharing the slight warmth.

It's not forgiven between the two of them; it's not mended. It's something better, a thousand times better than what they had before.

As the night wears on, Emma starts to shiver like crazy, even though the Fridge is balmy and warm, practically fifty degrees, and they've cleared away the snow for a small patch and are sitting on the ground.

Her shoulder. As dawn starts to approach, he sees the matted red wound, the gunk forming around it. Gangrene. God fucking damn it!

He doesn't know how to treat the gangrene. He's pretty much as fucking useless as her.

"'ow long 'ave you 'ad zis wound?" he snarls.

"Dunno," she mutters. "Maybe two days . . ."

Nothing comes to mind. He dribbles water (ice melted in his blackening palms) onto her body. It hurts to hold anything. His hands and feet are one solid mass of pain.

He's dying. He can feel it.

So is she.

Her fever spikes at around midday. He hugs her when she starts moaning from the cold, gives her the jacket and tells her she can keep it, he never wants it back. He doesn't have any body heat to spare, and she keeps shaking. Both of them are rail-thin and pale.

His hands and feet hurt so much he can't keep them still for more than a few seconds. His fingers are the worst. He thinks they might actually start falling off soon. He can't even feel most of his fingertips (that's the worst part). His hand, though, the part that's still in the process of dying, throbs pain through him in a steady pace following his heartbeat.

"Christophe," Emma rasps out at about four o clock in the afternoon.

He's drooped over her, half-asleep, half-twitching. Now he jerks up, muttering, "_Oui_?"

"Tell me it's going to be okay," she begs.

And so he does. He tells her about the food they'll eat when they get out, and about the places in France he'll take her and his friends/siblings/family/whatever Maria and Chase and Gregory. He describes soft beds and roaring fires and heated elevators and-

Whenever she asks for confirmation, he says yes, they are going to be okay, they are going to get out of there. When she asks how he tells her the Yardale School will break soon and let them out. It's been five, six days, so much longer than he's ever been in the Fridge before, they'll break soon, he knows it-

She starts hallucinating about when the sun dips down for an artificial dusk.

"Mom?" she whispers.

He glances down at her and decides she needs more water. He thrusts his useless hands into the snow besides them and manages to scoop some more up into his palms.

"Mom, please don't leave me."

"Mommy, mommy!"

He can't melt the water fast enough, he doesn't have any body heat-

"I hate you!" Emma screams. "Mommy, don't go! Mommy!"

She starts to sob. He forces her slurp down the water he's melted, and she coughs on it and hacks weakly for a solid minute, every cough a struggle.

"Stay away." Her eyes are tightly closed.

He groans and presses his head against her stomach.

"I told you bastards I'm not joining your gang! Stay away!"

On and on and on.

XXX

At about midnight, she mutters, "Christophe?"

Her voice is dry and strained. He looks down at her, peering through the gloom. Most of her dress has been ripped away. She lies on the jacket, which protects her back from the cold. He could tap a rhythm on her ribs. Her face is gaunt. Sweat pours down her face. Blood, sticky, coats her body. Her blackened hands and feet lie at her side, useless and dead.

"_Oui_?" he mutters.

"I just . . .want . . ."

She's dying, she's dead. It doesn't matter anymore, she's dead either way.

"Before . . . I die . . ."

Even she admits it.

"Please . . . "

He wants out of here so bad, and he knows she wants him out, he knows she wants out-

"Before-"

She's in so much pain. Frostbite. Starvation. Wounds. Fever.

"I want to . . . ."

His knife lies next to him, forgotten since their battle.

"I want to see the sun, the real sun, one last time . . . before I die . . ."

He picks it up and feels the weight in his hands.

"Please . . . "

Solid. Heavy. Familiar.

"Christophe . . . "

Easy. So easy. One strike and they'll take him from this hellhole. One push and it'll all be over.

"Promise . . . "

So easy.

"I promise," he whispers, and kisses her forehead, and lifts the blade with his crumbling, shaking hands.

XXX


	8. Chapter 8

**Last 100% little!Christophe– I just wanted to get this segment over with. Plus, it's fun to update more frequently.**

**Enjoy!**

Christophe wakes up in a cocoon of sheet and blankets. He glances down at his hands. Pink and normal again. He wriggles them, to test it out.

He doesn't hurt anymore. That's all he knows. He doesn't hurt anymore and it's warm. He should inspects his surroundings . . . he should plan an escape . . .

He still can't bring himself to care. He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

XXX

"Tophe!"

Voice. It's female.

Whatever.

He rolls over, sheets twisting around his body.

"Chris-toph-phe! Wake up!" A small hand grabs his shoulder.

He jerks into a sitting position, whipping his head around. His muscles groan, but his hands still curl as he goes into defensive mode.

Maria on one side of the bed. Chase crawling up next to him. Gregory hovering by his bedside table.

He closes his eyes and falls back against his pillow.

"Christophe! You all right? You better be alright, moron! Oh, god, your face!" He hears Maria sniffle down her tears. "Oh, _dios_, Christophe, don't just tune us out now."

He opens his eyes obligingly.

"What are you zree doing 'ere?" he mutters, his voice thick. The words still sluggishly fall out of his mouth. He can barely move the right side of his face.

"Coming to get you out, you moron!" she snaps. "You were gone for ten days, you know! We came and visited you yesterday, but they made us go back to our fucking lessons, so Gregory came up with his plan last night and we're going to bust out!"

He stares at the three of them, half-reeling.

"I was gone for ten days? But I was only in ze Fridge for six."

"You were in the Fridge for six days?" Chase lets out a little whimper. He crawls up next to Christophe on the bed. He's the only one who's still smaller than him (Gregory and Maria have both been cycling through series of growth spurts over the last few months). "Oh, Christophe." He half-hugs Christophe around the shoulder.

"You've been healing, we think." Maria clenches her fists out in front of her. "We saw them drag you out of the Fridge – you looked like hell – they made us leave, but made sure we got a good look first – wanted to scare us I think – fucking bastards."

"The angels healed your frostbite," Chase tells him. He hops off the bed but stays close enough to Christophe to brush his fingers over Christophe's shoulder. He hugs Maria around the waist at the same time. He's a physical contact whore.

Christophe glances down at his fingers and nods.

For the first time he surveys the room around him. A single bed. White walls, the pebbly texture barely visible in the gloom of the night. About the size of a bedroom. No other furniture. There's an IV next to him.

"We took it out of you," Maria explains when she sees his raised eyebrows.

"Why?"

"Because we're getting out of here," she hisses.

The words make his stomach clench, so instead he focuses on his questions. "'Ow are you 'ere? Ze hospital is on ze ground floor, and ze do not let us out of ze student dorms after nine o clock-"

"We snuck out."

It's the first time Gregory has spoken since Christophe woke up. His voice is flat and harsh.

"You broke zeir rules?" Christophe leans forward to glare at him. "Zey are going to fucking murder you!"

"I don't think you've been listening." Gregory doesn't look down at him. "We've said repeatedly that we're going to break out. Tonight. We are going to give them plenty of reasons to want to kill us."

"Break out?"

For a few seconds the only sounds are the steady hum of the a/c and their pounding hearts.

"But . . . ze guards."

"Negotiated with."

"You negotiated wiz ze guards?" Christophe stares at him in disbelief. He glances at Maria and Chase, who are avoiding his gaze, then back at Gregory. "What did you do?"

"Nothing I won't do again if it means we can get out of here."

"But . . . you said years until we escape. You said we 'ave to become stron-gairre." His accent slips on the last word.

"We are strong enough. If not, then we have to be tonight. We have to leave, Christophe. What happened to you . . . I do not want it to happen again."

"Why?"

He knows Gregory has been building a plan together, analyzing the building structure, planning their blending into the real world, how they'll cover their tracks. He also know Gregory has not finished the plan yet, that he will always follow the plan.

Gregory doesn't respond. Chase sits on the bed next to him and curls his arms around Christophe's waist.

"Why?" he demands, fists clenching the sheets.

"Maria," Gregory jerks his head. "Give him your mirror."

Shakily, Maria tugs her mother's eyeshadow container (a momento she never lets go of) and hands it to him. He opens it and stares into the mirror.

The right side of his face is completely coated in scars, twisted and marred. The features are melted beyond recognition. He touches his right eye. In the gloom, he hasn't even noticed he can't see out of it.

"Oh," he says.

He can't look any more. He snaps the mirror closed and hands it back to Maria, who tucks it into her jeans pocket.

"Just because I 'ave started to look a leettle gross does not mean we need to start risking your lives-"

"I let him drag you away!" Gregory yells.

Christophe looks up at him in surprise.

"You were shouting at the them and Maria and Chase tried to fight them off and he just dragged you away! And I did nothing! I just stood there and planned and plotted and did nothing!"

"And if I wait and make the perfect plan this time, then I will never carry it out, because I will be too afraid. We have to do it now, Christophe. I'll loose my nerve if we don't, and then we'll never escape. They hurt you so bad. I never want them to hurt any of you again." He grits his teeth and hides behind his blond wave of bangs. "We have to escape now. While we still can."

They all stare at him.

"I am not letting my emotions rule me." He rubs his eyes and avoids their looks. "I am just thinking logically. Right now is the best time-"

Christophe grabs his hand and drags him down onto the bed. He reaches up, brushes the hair out of Gregory's eyes, and forces him to look at him.

"I understand," he says, and kisses him, because at this moment, it's perfect.

Gregory stumbles back, eyes wide. Maria crows. Chase giggles. Christophe's cheeks burn.

"Um, um, um-"

He's never seen Gregory flustered before. It's undeniably adorable. _Adorable._ He's never applied the adjective to the English bastard before, either. What is he, a girl?

"Right." Christophe swings his legs out of the bed, stumbling from the effort. He holds onto Maria for support. The door is closed. "Let's escape zis place, zen?"

XXX

"What about ze guards?"

"Like I said, I negotiated with them."

They speak in hushed whispers and cower behind the corner, glancing at waiting room. Into the waiting room, out the double doors, into the sunlight, over the gate – It'll be perfect, beautiful. And then they'll be free.

"Negotiated, like-" Christophe clenches his fists. "Like you negotiated to get me ze cigarettes?"

Gregory nods, his jaw tight. "But much more required."

Christophe glances at Maria and Chase. "Why would you let 'im do zat?" he snaps, as quietly as possible, because there's a dozing receptionist at the front desk.

"They helped me, Christophe."

"What? What ze fuck? You fucking assholes! 'Ow could you 'ore yourselves out just so I –"

"We already told you," Gregory growls, keeping his voice down. "Now shut up before you give us away and render everything we've done pointless."

Christophe closes his mouth, still fuming, his stomach still churning. He can't argue with them, not right here, not right now. Not ever, he realizes. They did what they did because they care about him.

He presses his forehead against the wall.

"Cameras?" he whispers.

"Hernandez turned them off. At least, he said he did. If he didn't-" Gregory cracks his knuckles.

Hernandez is one of the regular guards. He's also one of the medium-sized population of pedophiles the Yardale school hired for the sole purpose of tormenting the kids.

"Zere are supposed to four guards," Christophe murmurs. The number of guards is part of Gregory's plan, just something else to take into consideration.

"We found out the schedule. Two of them we . . . negotiated with last night, one of them we managed to slip a sleeping serum, and one of them we found a baseball bat for." Gregory looks at him sharply.

He's right, there's no turning back.

"We have to get past the receptionist." Maria glances up at Gregory. "What was the plan again?"

Gregory sighs. "Simple distraction technique. Make some noise in the opposite direction, hope she goes to investigate. If not, we'll have to move on to more advanced techniques." He pulls his shoe off his foot and lobs it past the receptionist.

It lands in the mouth of the far hallway with a thump. The receptionist yawns, glances at the shoe, and frowns. She clambers out from behind her desk and stumbles over to the shoe. Bends over. Glances down, muttering, "Why-"

Gregory darts forward and slams a rock down on her head. She crumples, hits the floor. Maria and Chase rush forward to help him, and the three children drag her limp form behind her desk again.

Christophe stares. "What . . . " he whispers.

"Picked this up this morning." Gregory hefts it, smiling, smirking humorlessly. "Let's go."

They head out into the gravel walkway. The stones crunch under their feet as they move, so Gregory, Maria and Chase take off their shoes (Christophe, while he was changed into the black uniform while he slept, didn't receive a pair of shoes and so moves quietly).

The fence towers in front of them. Barbed wire at the top, brick twenty feet high. Video cameras rotate slowly.

"Fucking Hernandez," Maria mutters. "What a fucking liar."

They huddle behind bushes, staring at the video camera covering the section of wall they've selected to climb.

"The ones inside have to be turned off," Gregory says with certainty. "Otherwise, they would have already tracked us down."

"Is zere anywhere not covered?" Christophe asks, even though he already knows the answer. Gregory has been running through escape options every day for the past few months.

Gregory shakes his head. "No." He chews his lip and examines the wall. After a minute, he says, "Alright. The fastest route will be to clamber up that tree next to the wall, and then somehow jump the ten feet . . . " he hesitates. "Chase will go first, followed by Maria, then me, then Christophe-" He stops and turns to Christophe, opening his mouth to ask the question.

"I'm fine," he snaps. "Ze already 'ealed me up and pumped me full of zeir nutrients so I am not starving to deazth anymore. I will go last."

Gregory nods. "Christophe last. We'll start climbing ten seconds apart. It should take approximately a minute and a half to climb the tree, and twenty seconds to get across the wall. I didn't plan for Hernandez to forget to turn off the outside cameras. I didn't plan for this."

His eyes start to widen. He sucks in too much air, ragged fingernails digging into the ground.

Christophe grabs his shoulder and forces him to look at him. "I will fix this," he promises.

He turns and runs back towards the Yardale school, keeping behind bushes to avoid the cameras.

He snaps open the shed lock with a rock. He holds his breath for a second, praying slight_ clang_! doesn't wake anyone. Nothing happens, so he pries open the shed door and steps inside. Dust fills his mouth and he coughs and coughs, bending over on his hands and knees.

When the coughing fit leaves him, he scrambles up and searches through the shed until he finds a length of rope. Still hacking slightly, he runs back to the others, panting for air.

"Perfect!" Maria snatches it from him and hugs the rope against her chest. When the others stare at her, she snaps, "What?"

"Someone 'as a rope fetish," Christophe mutters.

"Yeah," Chase says, his voice light even though his eyes are huge from fear and he hugs himself constantly. "Want us to tie you up, Maria?"

"Shut up you guys!" She shoves the rope back at Christophe, who starts to uncoil it.

"Maria's right, it's perfect." Gregory takes the end of the rope from Gregory. His panic has died down. "I will take thirty seconds to secure this rope to the branch. Then Chase will grab it and we will throw him over the gate. His weight will drag it down. Find something to secure it to."

"You're gonna throw me?" Chase squeaks. "Why me?"

"You're ze smallest, moron," Christophe snaps.

"But he's the fattest!" Maria teases. "Throw me instead, it seems like fun!"

"Follow the plan," Gregory says. "This is the plan. Let's follow it."

Christophe watches as Gregory, Chase, and Maria dissolve into a squabble. It's so strange how things went back to normal almost immediately, as if he never-

But the fact is, he still remembers the wet spurt of blood when his knife slashed the first vein in Emma's neck. The right side of his face is still scarred into deformation (he catches the other kids sneaking glances at it every few seconds). He still knows exactly what Maria, Gregory, and Chase had to suck to even get them this opportunity.

It's so easy to forget, though. Easy to forget and just run for freedom.

They scamper up the tree in dead silence, their trained bodies moving with practiced ease. Christophe knots his end of the rope around the tree while Gregory ties his end around Chase.

"They can see us," Maria whispers, nodding towards a video camera a dozen feet away, which is now focused on them, probably a motion sensor.

"I estimate two minutes for someone to notice it, two minutes for them to summon forces and arrive here." Gregory helps Chase to his feet; all four of them balance precariously on the thick branch.

"Christophe, help me." The two larger boys pick Chase up and stagger over to the end of the branch. Even with their abnormal strength (influenced by them being 'low heavenfilth?' Christophe wonders) they still grunt under Chase's weight.

"One, two, three." Gregory hisses, and they toss the smaller as hard as they can.

Chase's arm scrapes the barbed wire on the top of the fence, but he tumbles over it and the rope on their side tenses. They hear a thump on the other side.

"You all right?" Gregory calls.

"Yeah . . . landed on my hurt arm . . . gimme a sec, I'm tying it to a bush . . . "

Christophe hears noises, shouts inside the school. He turns to Gregory, mouth open without anything to say.

"Okay, go!" Chase yells.

Maria clambers across the rope first. She ends up getting her arm stuck in barbed wire, shrieks, but disappears over the side next.

Gregory gives Christophe one last look and starts to climb hand-over-hand over the rope after her. He disappears and hits the ground with the same groan in pain as Chase.

"Stop!"

Christophe turns. Guards hurdle towards him, their guns raised, two hundred feet away.

"We won't hesitate to shoot!"

As if to emphasize, a shot cracks out and bark flies off the nearest tree. Christophe gapes at it for half a second. _They're really fucking serious!_

But he swallows down his fear and shouts back:

"Fuck you, assholes!"

He flips them off and slides one hand over the rope, ignoring the burn. He drags himself over the rope. A shot nicks his cheek, and he cries up but keeps climbing.

He ends up dragging himself right through the barbed wire. Adrenaline sears away his pain. He lands on the ground. The fall disorients him, and with his face in the dirt, all he can do is let his hands scrabble out for a purchase, for anything. Someone drags him up and hugs him. He opens his eyes and sees locks of blond hair, even though he doesn't need it to discern identity. He'd know Gregory's scent –of soap and blood and cotton – anywhere.

"Thank fucking god you're alright," Gregory mutters, dragging Christophe closer to him until their chests press together. "I thought they'd shot you."

"I am all fine, moron," Christophe murmurs back, and lets himself relax into Gregory's arms.

"Lovebirds? Save the making out for later." Maria forces them apart. "They've got soldiers on the other side – I can hear 'em – and it'll take, like, two minutes or less until they open the gate."

They snap back to reality. In front of them is the highway, which is surrounded by fields of waving grass.

"Let's go!" Christophe grabs Gregory's hands and drags him into the fields. The other two follow. Their bare feet are full of stickers and burrs in seconds. The grass scratches at their arms and legs and faces, but it's tall enough to cover the children. The perfect hide out. And in the darkness, no one can see the grass moving, anyway.

Laughter bubbles out from Christophe. He honestly cannot remember the last time he laughed because he found something funny, or because he was happy. Certainly not since they came to Yardale.

With Gregory's hand in his and his three best friends/family in the world running beside him, he couldn't be more at peace.

The freedom lasts for eleven days.

**xxx**

**Review? (****grins hopefully)**

**-liz out**


	9. Chapter 9

**Present Day**

Gregory snaps the collar around my neck with a sick, sad smile. I hear the familiar _click!_ of the lock and the metal settles against my skin. He steps back a pace. I finger the collar, and scowl at him.

"Ze least you assholes can do ees give me back my shovel," I inform him.

"So you can dig your way out?"

I glance at the airplane he's going to make me board in a few seconds. The cool October (goddamnit, what the fuck is up with snow on the ground in the middle of October?) air rushes around me and waves through my burned hair. The outpost where they've been keeping me captured is in front of us, a huge office building. Behind us is the runway with the small jet thing sitting, humming from energy.

I watch slowly as a group of low Heavenfilth soldiers wheel a huge platform-cart alongside us. Three 5X5 cages are stacked up on it. One of the soldiers is smoking. _Oh, fuck, I want a cigarette so badly-_

Butters Scotch, the blond High Heavenfilth Pip said had been captured, is curled up in the first one. Lash marks run over his cheek. Most of his hair has been shaved off. He's missing an eye. Sometime during the past few days he lost his shirt; now he wears just boxers, revealing oozing, pus-filled wounds over his chest. His tongue lolls out of his mouth: he stares at me with milky, dead blue eyes.

I clench my fists. _At least after they torture me, they heal me. _

"He hasn't been giving us any answers," Gregory says. "He says he's sure there are no other High Hellspawn in the area." He snorts. "I would say the antichrist is a false statement to that. There are likely others."

"Up yours, too, fag!" Damien calls to Gregory. His cage is stacked below Butters'. Even though he's also injured and half clothed, his eyes are filled fire and he would spit venom if he wasn't still wearing the metal wire around his neck, which doubtless keeps whispering the scripture at him. "Go and fuck yourself! No, wait! Come over here and I'll do it for you."

Gregory shakes his head. I smirk.

"That kind of language," Gregory says, "Is exactly the reason you'll be put in the Fridge as soon as you arrive in Yardale."

"You're putting 'im the Fridge? For mouzing off?" I'm about to snarl at the injustice, but then remember how many times the same thing happened to me as a kid. "Well, put me in zere, too! Because fuck you, Gregory! Fuck you right in ze ear!"

It takes me half a second to realize with these words, I've chosen a side. God. Fucking. Damn it! No! No! No! _No!_

He shakes his head with the same sad smile. "That's your cage, mole," he says, pointing towards the empty cage.

"Don't call me zat," I say automatically, but my brain is still going _nononononononononononononono!_

"Just get in," he says.

I'm no moron. Shock/tracker collar around my neck, remember? I give him one final glower and walk with my remaining dignity toward the platform-cart. One of the soldiers opens the cage for me, and I clamber inside. I'm stacked next to Damien's cage, and Butters' cage is on top of his.

_ I'm neutral!_ I want to cry. _I'm fucking neutral!_

Damien smirks at me, his eyebrows raised. "Ain't this fun?" he drawls. My glower has enough force to make even him wince. "Ouch," he mutters.

Maybe if I stay far enough away from him, maybe if I don't call attention to myself, maybe if we don't talk-

But no, we've already agreed to help each other. By siding with him, I'm just siding with whatever will get me out of here the fastest. The Yardale school won't see it that way. They'll see me as on the demon's side, as allied with Hell in the Final Battle. _Fuck! _

The soldiers start to wheel the platform cart over to the plane. The motion jerks me back and I slouch against the war wall, metal bars digging into my back. My skinny legs, bare up to the knee from my ripped-ragged jeans, press against the metal floor of my cage. I have to half-curl over to fit in, and for Butters and Damien it must be even worse.

I'm on a side now.

I grit my teeth and lean my head back against the bars.

Fingers yank in my hair. I whirl to see Damien, grinning at me sarcastically. He fits his hands through the bars and reaches into my cage.

"Ah! Fuck! Do not do zat!"

"Just wanted to get your attention." He jerks his head up. "The kid's name is Butters, right?" His voice goes low. "He's in bad shape Christophe."

My jaw clenches. "I do not know what to do," I hiss back at him.

"Shut up!" One of the soldiers wheeling our cart barks at us. We send identical glowers at him, then accidentally smirk at each other before I manage to go back to glaring at Damien.

"Listen, Damien-"

The cart stops next to the plane. One of the soldiers yanks Butters' cage off Damien's, grunting from the effort but managing to lift 400+ pounds total. They're all low heavenfilth/angels, so this kind of weight is minimal to them. I watch them load his cage into the plane.

"What is it, Christophe?"

Far away, Gregory is turning and walking back into the building which has been my torture chamber for the past few days. Now it'll seem like paradise compared to the purgatory about to come. A woman joins him, and I recognize her measured, controlled gait even from far off: Greyson. The warrior bitch, his 'teacher.' My fists clench and tighten and tighten around the metal bars of my cage.

The soldiers return for Damien's cage. Two of them heft it together.

"Fuck you, antichrist. Fuck you for mak-eeng me choose a side."

XXX

It's dark in here. Dark enough for the blackness to swallow me up, to eat me inside and out. I curl up on my side, my breathing shallow. I'm not afraid of the dark, although slight claustrophobia does get to me. I just feel empty.

Home, home, home. To Yardale school. Fucking yay.

I hear Butters whimper and sniffle. He's a few yards away from me. Damien's cage is closer, still bumping up against mine. I sit in the far side of my cage and he sits in the far side of his so we have as much distance between us as possible.

Butters chokes, coughs, and then sucks in air. I hear him straining to draw it down. Another cough. Another whimper. He must be conscious now, but he doesn't say anything. A sob escapes him, the only sound besides the buzz of the engines.

"He's really bad," Damien mutters.

"No sheet, Sherlock." I don't even bother to lift my head from the floor.

"What are we supposed to do?" Damien snaps. "I don't think they even mind if he dies! If he did, they'd probably be happy, because then they'd fucking dissect him or something! We're just test subjects, rats to them, the two of us. You're a little more than that. You're like their fucking guard dog or something. Good enough for them to feed you and heal you, but not so much they don't mind 'punishing' you or locking you in a fucking cage." Sarcasm drips from his voice. "Oh, but we might as well be enemies, because if we work together, then something mysteriously bad will happen. Never mind the worse thing that could happen to us would be staying in this purgatory, going to this fucking 'Yardale School,' or wherever these bastards are dragging us. A worse fate would be working together and getting free, wouldn't it?"

"Shut up!" the mole hisses. "Just fuck-eeng shut eet, you fuck-eeng beetch!"

"Then why won't you work with me?"

"Eet ees not because I zink you are so-called 'bad guy' for be-eeng an 'ellspawn. Eet ees because _zey_ will zink zat, and all zat matters is what zey zink!"

"Why?"

"Because zey're ze ones pulling my strings, you fuck-eeng moron!"

"You're the fucking moron, Christophe! Don't you friggin' get it? We can't let them pull the damn strings, we have to yank them on our own or we'll never be free! Goddamn it, I thought you were stronger than this! Now, we have to help Butters, because otherwise he'll fucking die!"

The mole stares at him, or rather, the direction his voice is coming from.

"Why do you care about what 'appens to 'im? You do not even know 'im."

"Because I'm not a dick," Damien snaps back. "Don't make me be the good guy, Christophe. I thought you were the hero here. I thought you were the one who was so desperate to be free. Don't let this fucked-up place we're headed for tear that from you, because it's who you are. Jesus fucking Christ, I barely know you and I can see that. Don't let them destroy you. You chose what happens, you fight your way out. You make your own freedom. Got it? Fucking hell!"

The mole swallows deep and fights inside. He fights the urge to curl up and scream and cry. That is not the way to survive here, he knows, and survival is the key. To survive, he has to do whatever the Yardale school says, and maybe they won't hurt him.

_But if I do that_, some buried part of him whispers,_ then I won't truly survive at all._

I pull in a deep breath. "About zat . . . " I mutter. "I 'ad to fight back ze urge to give up."

"Don't give up, moron. Show these bastards what we're made of by saving Butters. What should I do?"

"You're ze antichrist and you 'ave no idea?"

"Of course I do, idiot! I'm just – I'm just-" His voice falls flat. I hear him shift his weight. "Okay, you're right. I have no idea. I'm not good at this sort of thing."

"Fine." I lean forward in my cage until we're close enough to reach through the bars and touch another, although we don't (we can't even see). "Do you 'ave any magical abilities? Somezing ze scripture does not restrain?"

"It restrains everything, but I can fight for some of my magic back." I hear him drag a deep breath in noisily. In the background, Butters is still sobbing. "It'll hurt though. A lot."

"Can you make a light?"

"I can try." His voice grows soft. "That's the least we can do, Christophe. We can at least try."

"I know." I take a deep breath. "I just . . . lost myself for a second zere, zat's all."

Silence. I heart Damien hiss and growl expletives. Then light flares out, a small flume the size of a quarter, bright white streaks glowing softly. It paints shadows on the walls, creates gloom in the otherwise monotonous darkness. It draws the world back, even though the colors still bleed into black-and-whites from the blaring color of his light.

"I did it," he pants out.

"Can you free us from ze cage?"

"No! I've been trying since we first got stuck in here!"

"Damn." I peer over at Butters. His wounds rot green and grotesque. The smell of his decay already makes me want to gag; now that I know what the putrid reek is, I feel bile rise in my throat.

Damien mutters something in a language I don't understand. I swear in French.

Sweat runs down Butters' cheek. His glazed-over eyes focus on us. "Hi . . . hiya fellas . . . " he manages.

"He probably has a fever. And his wounds are infected." Damien speaks through clenched teeth. "I don't know how much longer I can use my magic." He closes his eyes. "My head really fucking hurts."

"Wait, wait. Let me zink." I've always been one for impulsive actions, daredevil stunts. Back when we were little kids, Gregory was always the one with the plan. I punch my fist into the metal floor and leave it there. _Think, think._ I've survived nine years as a mercenary on my own; I know how to get out of shit like this.

"Can you 'eal others at all?"

"Yeah, but I'm terrible at it. I h-h-have to be touching it. The wound." He closes his eyes. Sweat pours down his face. "C-c-can't keep the light up . . . any . . . more."

The light fades away.

"Can you use any magic at all?" I demand, alarmed.

"Maybe a little," he pants back.

"Good. Rip off some of your jeans and see if you can put a healing spell on zem."

I hear him comply, tearing off a chunk of his pants.

"Spells don't exactly like being worked like this," he informs me.

"I know you can place zem in objects, so stop complaining," I snap. He mutters something like, 'fucking dipshit turdmunching asslicker," under his breath. Light briefly blazes from his hands again, this time, a dull red that only illuminates his fingers. I peer through the darkness at watch the small circle of crimson light. His hands grip the fabric tightly. The red glows around the shred, then fades.

"Got it in. Don't know how much good it is, though." His voice changes volume from loud to barest murmur in the course of a single sentence.

"Butters, are you awake?"

". . . why . . . of course I am . . . 'tophe . . . " His voice, thick with tears, clogs the words until they're almost indiscernible.

I grind my teeth. "Damien, toss ze cloth to 'im. It can release into 'is skin, _oui_?" All I know about magic comes from the year of lessons I took from the Yardale school back when I was six, seven years old, back before I actually knew how to use magic (I still don't, not really, not unless you count what I do with my shovel 'magic').

"Um . . . maybe. I don't usually heal others."

"You are an ass'ole. Toss him the cloth."

The light flickers back on. Damien, gasping, balls up the fabric and chucks it at Butters. The scrap of jeans, still vaguely glowing red, lands in Butters' cage, slipping between the bars. The light goes out.

"Butters? You 'ave your 'and on ze clozth?'

"One sec . . . why, yes I do . . . " His mumble trails off. He coughs, hacking up globs of something wet.

"Try putting eet on your wounds. I believe it will do somezing, at least, especially since ze two of you are bothz 'igh 'ellspawn." That seems like it would help, right?

Butters sniffles. I hear him shuffling over in his cage, then his sigh.

"Oh, gee, fellas," he breathes out. "That . . . that's real . . . I feel so much better . . . " His voice dies out again, but this time he sounds relaxed. A snore echoes from his cage.

"He fell asleep," Damien observes unnecessarily.

"Thzank zat cocksucking beetch in ze sky," I mutter, and lean back against the near wall of my cage. He leans against his so we're almost touching. I don't bother to flinch away. I can feel his body heat. It's almost relaxing. I can't remember the last time I was this close and relaxed to another person.

. . . relaxed. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. How the hell am I **relaxed**.

"Sorry," I say out loud. I wince. I honestly can't remember the last time I apologized and actually meant it. Eight years? Nine? I think I did it a couple of times back in Yardale. Maybe. Um.

"For what?" he mutters. "You probably just saved Butters' ass."

"No, zat was you."

". . . Christophe, are you being **modest?** What the hell is wrong with you?"

I suck in air. "I'm afraid," I say. "I am really, really scared of what zey will to do me at ze Yardale school once I return. I am afraid of what ze will make me do. Last time . . . " I close my eyes, although I can't see anything anyway. "Zey made me kill someone. I was desperate. I was dying and so was she. She was innocent. And I killed her."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Damien yawns. "Nice pathetic sob story."

xxx

I punch him through the bars of the cage. He yelps and jerks back.

"You are a beetch, you know zat? I just opened up to you and you zrough eet back in my face!"

"Ow," he mutters. I hear him rub his head. "You hit me hard."

"Move back 'ere so I can 'it you again!"

"No!"

"Zen fuck you, asshole!" I slouch back and glare at nothing.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm not exactly a people person."

"Great. Now you are giving me _your _pazthetic sob story."

"Hey!" He moves back against the side of his cage, reaches through the bars, and grabs me by the ragged collar of my shirt. I wriggle away but he pulls me against the bars.

"Cocksucker!"

"Listen to me, damn it! I'm sorry I was a douche just then! But, look, I'm going to say stupid shit like that all the time. You're going to have to deal with it, sorry. I can't change the kind of asshole I am. You're going to have to call me out on it. But I'll listen to you. Please. Tell me why you're afraid."

"So you can mock me again? No fuck-eeng way!"

"Please, Christophe," he whispers.

He releases me, but I stay where I am. I feel his breath. I hear his heart beat. His body heat radiates off his skin and envelops me.

"Emotions are deep and personal. A weakness."

"No, they're not," he insists. "They're what makes you human."

I give a short laugh. "Are you fuck-eeng kidding me? Ze first time I saw you, you were slaughtering an angel. You 'ave no right to talk about be-eeng 'uman."

"Maybe not," he says. "But I'm hear right now, I'm screwed over, and I'm not so stupid that I don't know I can't do this alone. So. Please. Open up to me."

"Fuck you," I mutter. "I cannot trust you."

"I know you can't. But please, Christophe."

"Fuck you."

His hands snake through the cage again and wrap around me, almost pressing me against him. Only the cage bars keep us apart.

For some reason, I tell him about Emma. He tells me again that it's a pathetic sob story, but this time he says it gently, like it's not something I'm being weak over, it's something terrible that happened to me.

"So you're afraid they'll make you kill again."

"Not afraid to kill. I kill all ze time, it's part of ze job. But I'm afraid zey'll make me kill someone innocent. I 'ate kill-eng ze innocent. Ze are not bad people, ze people ze Yardale School wants me to kill. Ze are simply on ze othzzair side of a war I never wanted to fight." I drop my head into my hands. "And now you 'ave made me choose a side."

"Hey," he says. "It's okay. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Why?" I snarl. "Why do you fucking care?"

We're so close I feel his shrug. "I don't know. Maybe because I know Pip's too pathetic, my dad would probably just find this whole thing funny, and I don't have anyone else to care about me."

I give a short laugh. "So? You want to add me to zat short list? Even zough I am one of ze 'eavenfilth?"

"Even so." He yawns. I hear the murmurs of the scripture around his neck, which makes my stomach clench in disgust.

"I don't know if I ever formally asked you, but will you work with me to get out of this shit hole? Together, no backing out like you were trying to do before, no ditching until we're free."

"What, are you ask-eeng me to marry you or somezing?"

"Hey, if that's what you want, sure."

"No zanks."

"I'm serious. My dad will probably want me to have a steady relationship at least when I start helping him rule the world, after the final battle."

I shiver a little bit at the mention of the 'final battle' that I really don't want to think about. "Are you a fag like 'im?"

"Nice language, Christophe. You don't have f-word rights."

"Fine." I roll my eyes even though he can't see it. The plane buzzes and I feel the angle change as it starts to descend. I keep up the conversation to distract myself. The urge to switch back into 'the mole' – to stop caring, to just do whatever the hell they want in order to survive- threatens to overwhelm me, but Damien's arms around me keep me grounded. "Are you a _homosexual_ like 'im?"

"Don't say it like that, either," he mutters. "And no. I'm bi."

"Ah. So you're a depraved slut."

"Hey! Stereotyping!"

I laugh. "You are, zough, aren't you."

"Yeah, but not because I'm bi." His grip around me shifts. "Do you want me to let go?"

I realize how he must be interpreting the situation. "Do whatever, 'ellspawn."

He starts to draw back and I flinch. Fear swamps over me. Without his arms around me, the sensation of loosing altitude rises within me. We're getting closer . . . getting closer . . .

"_Non,"_ I whisper. He stops and re-hugs me, although I know the position can't be comfortable for him, since he has to push up against the bars to reach me.

"What?" he whispers back.

"I'm-" the words clog in my throat.

"What?"

I shake my head. He's a jackass, he's a hellspawn, he's the fucking antichrist. I chew my lip and lean back against him.

"Tell me, Christophe."

His hands curl tight around me, reaching up around my shoulders to tangle in my hair. He smells like blood, sweat, and cigarettes. He must have mooched one off a soldier in exchange for something. I remember what we kids did for small favors and almost blanch. Except he's made it decently clear he's a depraved slut. I consider asking him if he has a cigarette on him. God, I want a cigarette so badly.

"I hate the way this feels on you," he says after a few seconds, fingers tracing the collar around my neck. I've grown used to its weight and have forgotten about it until he reminds me.

"I'll make sure to get this off you," he promises.

"Don't get sappy on me, 'ellspawn."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He shifts his weight. His fingers still drift over my neck, slipping over my collarbone-

Nausea and general disgust flare up in me. "Stop."

"Sorry." His hands settle around me again, back into the reassuring hug from before.

"You 'ave been saying zat a lot."

"So I have. So what were you going to say?"

The plane drops even more. The engine groans and moans and drones underneath us, rattling our cages slightly.

Somehow, I let it out.

"I am afraid."

He doesn't say anything.

"I am really, really scared."

Still, he's quiet.

"I want to curl up and cry, and sob."

He says, finally, "You never answered. Are you going to work with me, together, to get out of here?"

"Oui," I say. "Oui. I shall. And I will not be your significant ozzaire or somezthing so you can please your fazzere. If you want zat from me, zen you are go-eeng to 'ave to work up to eet. But I will be your friend, for now. Even zough you are a dick. And the antichrist. And one of ze beetchiest, most bipolar jackasses I 'ave ever met."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he says, and hugs me, and then the wheels of the plane hit the runway, jolting the plane up and down, the momentum and gravity ripping Damien and me apart. It takes the longest minutes of my life for the plane to come to a complete stop, for a door to be thrown open and light blind our tiny little room, for me to finally be home.


	10. Chapter 10

**Incredibly short chapter: I wanted to make it about twice as long but ran out of inspiration. I feel so bad for not updating for two weeks that I'm just giving you guys what I've written so far. Please enjoy: the next update will be longer and hopefully quicker.**

New York is wild.

Angry pedestrians stomp past the four kids, followed by clusters and clumps of the slower-moving foot traffic. Taxis and cabs bleep and rev their engines, driving past at an inch a minute. Street vendors sell everything from shoelaces to tambourines. Homeless people curl up in the corners. Druggies shake and shiver in the alleyways. Stray dogs hunt for trash. A violinist plays a concerto on the sidewalk, music ebbing out from her fingers. A trumpet player bellows out a jazz melody two blocks away. The buildings tower high above them, some gleaming brick, some worn down to rubble.

"Hold hands," Gregory orders, and so Christophe links hands with Gregory and Maria, and Chase latches onto Gregory, hugging him around the elbow. They push through the mass of people, their eyes huge and their mouths open.

Christophe is still deathly thin from his time in the Fridge. His stomach grumbles in protest, and he knows he can still count his ribs if he pulls up the black tank top. It's late March outside, warm-ish this time of dusk, but he knows it'll be freezing when the sun fades from the horizon. They need food, they need shelter, and they need to stay inconspicuous.

"'ow do we get food 'ere?" Christophe demands after the four of them manage to shove their way into a less- crowded area of the sidewalk. "I 'ave never been in a city zis large before."

"Me neither," Gregory says.

Maria shrugs.

They all look at Chase.

". . . I lived in L.A."

"The city of angels? That's a big city, right?" Maria jumps on this. "So you know how to get food."

Chase shrugs. ". . . we could steal it . . . but, that's . . . wrong . . ."

"I think the morally incorrect thing would be to let the three of you starve to death," Gregory says. "Therefore, as your leader, I say we steal it."

"Since when are you our leader?" Maria demands.

Gregory rolls his eyes. They've had this debate before.

"Stop it," Christophe says, as he thinks Gregory makes a decent leader. "Let's just get some food."

Gregory nods, and he leads the four of them over to a street vendor who's selling meat and vegetables on stick. "Kabobs," Chase mutters. They keep their hands clenched.

"All right," Gregory says. "Christophe, you distract him – lead him away somehow. Chase, you stand lookout. Maria and I will grab as much food as we can."

"Right," Christophe says. He eyes the vendor. Half-a-dozen people crowd around the stand, shouting orders. The man, who has a ridiculous triangle-shaped hat on his head, prepares their food as fast as he can.

"We'll meet up in the alley behind the library in case we get separated." Gregory jerks his head. "Everyone know where it is?"

"I don't," Chase says.

"Six blocks down the street and a block to the right, stupid," Maria says, rolling her eyes and saving Christophe from fessing up about lack of knowledge as well.

"Good. Everyone ready?" He smiles, nervously. "Let's do this."

Christophe nods and slips forward towards the vendor. The sidewalk is clustered with people. When he's about a dozen feet away, he stops and sucks in air. Using his fingernail, he grabs at the scabs on his cheek from where he was shot, and rips, wincing from the pain. Luckily, head wounds bleed excessively. He flicks the scab off, woozy, and then lets the pain seep into him. He tips back his head and screams bloody murder.

Every head turns to him. He knows what they see: a way-too-skinny kid with a messed-up scar, blood running down his face. He screams, "HELP ME!"

Fortunately, all the adults turn away from the vendor. The vendor himself jumps out from behind his stand and hurries over to Christophe. Several adults mutter something along the lines of, "Great, another kid," but they watch with bile fascination anyway.

Christophe drops to his knees and keeps wailing.

"Hey? Hey, are you okay, kid?" the vendor asks, kneeling down next to him.

He thinks of the best lie to keep their attention on him. "My daddy 'it me again," he moans, clutching at the vendor's arm to keep him from turning back to his sales.

"What? Oh, Jesus Christ, kid, are you okay?"

"No! Eet's bleeedddddinnng!"

"Ah, somebody call an ambulance or the police or something!" The vendor pats Christophe on the head and half-hugs him. "It's gonna be okay, kid, we've got you now." Concerned adults huddle around them.

"Z. . . thzank you," Christophe sniffles. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Maria and Gregory shoving kabobs into a brown paper bag.

"Hey!" An older women a few dozen feet away yells. She points to Maria and Gregory. Chase waves to Christophe urgently as the adults turn to look at the vendor's stall.

"What . . . " the vendor gasps, but Christophe has already wriggled out of his arms, pushed his way through the mob of people, and scrambled down the sidewalk.

He sprints until he arrives the library. Gasping for breath, he flops down next to the dumpster in the alleyway. He ignores the stench and rips off the bottom of his tank top with shaking fingers. His uses the cloth to wipe at the blood running down his face.

"You're okay!"

Chase, Maria, and Gregory burst into the alley, Gregory holding the amazing-smelling brown paper bag.

"Food!" Maria crows.

"Christophe first." Gregory squats down on the ground next to him and offers the brown bag. Christophe reaches inside and pulls out a stick laden with roasted chicken, grilled onions, and fried red bell peppers. His eyes widen.

"Don't favor your boyfriend," Maria complains, trying to snag her own stick of food.

"Hey!" Gregory yelps. "He's the one who starved for six days, he gets the most food!"

"Sure, sure," Christophe mutters around his food (he's already eaten half of the kabob in the space of their conversation.) He likes how Gregory doesn't deny the 'boyfriend' part of Maria's statement.

"We have fourteen sticks, so we each get three and Christophe gets five," Gregory mutters. He allows the other two to snatch up kabobs.

With his mouth full, Christophe mumbles, "Zanks, sweeeeeetttiiiiee-" Which makes Maria and Chase laugh until Gregory's flushing that adorable shade of bright red.

XXX

They press against each other, comforted by the skin-on-skin contact. Gregory's elbow squashes into his stomach, and Christophe's knee bangs against Gregory's head, but neither of them mind. Christophe curls around Gregory's body, resting his head on his stomach. They're both in the too-exhausted-to-move-too-awake-to-close-their-eyes stage.

After half an hour of just thinking, Christophe says, "What are we going to do now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play stupid."

Gregory sighs.

"I don't know if Chase and Maria will want to look for their parents," he says slowly. "They are just kids –"

"Zey won't," Christophe says.

"How do you know that?"

"Because zey are strong, Gregory."

He sighs, then smiles. For a few seconds, the two of them watch the more innocent members of their little group. Chase is gripping Christophe's other knee with both of his ankles, burying his face into Maria's neck with one arm wrapped around Gregory's neck. Maria cuddles, squashed in between the four of them. The four children keep as close as possible. They've gotten over themselves by now; they admit they need the physical contact.

Christophe can't even remember his old family. Every once in a while, he has a vague recollection – his mother's eyes are green, he thinks. His mother's eyes are green and his brother Owen smiled too much.

Other than flashes, _mother _and _father_ are alien concepts.

Any family he had in the past can't compare to the one he knows now.

"I'm scared," Gregory murmurs. He won't admit it out loud when Maria or Chase are awake, but he'll tell Christophe. They'll tell each other everything.

"So am I."

"What if the Yardale school tracks us down? I barely have any plans for this segment of our lives. I only calculated us escaping and finding some sort of primary education. I only have steps one and three. I need step two-"

"Gregory. Shut eet."

He does, and shifts his weight so Christophe ends up enveloped by the black cloth of Gregory's uniform tank top. They need to find new clothes.

He mentions this aloud.

"And a steady source of food."

"Zat ees step two-b. We are still on step two-a."

They fall asleep like that.

XXX

Chase reveals numerous ways of liberating required items from idiotic Americans. Clothes from Laundromats. Food from supermarkets after two in the morning (by when the attendant is too tired to care what they steal). Shelter by breaking into motel rooms, then leaving before anyone notices.

By the third day, Gregory puts his foot down.

"We're just surviving," he says. "We are not living."

Christophe is halfway through a bagel when he says this. Maria pauses, her muffin lodged in her mouth.

Chase cocks his head. "Um . . . "

"You know what I mean," Gregory snaps. "We are making no progress like this."

"Progress with what?" Maria mumbles, finishing up her muffins.

"Our lives."

They turn to look at Christophe, who usually opts to keep quiet whenever Gregory insists on one his speeches on moralities. He shrugs and returns to his food.

"What does everyone want to do?" Gregory leans back against the alley wall and picks at his own stolen food. "We've managed to bring our status quo from a) slavery, being forced to fight hellspawn – "

Christophe blanches, and they all look at him funny. He swallows hard and shakes his head. He knows Gregory means the demons, not humanoids like Emma. They don't even know about Emma.

"We've gone from a) slavery, being forced to fight hellspawn, being forced to drink that nasty shit-" They all shiver. "After being beaten, molested, tortured, and starved constantly, we've changed into b) Life on the run, with enough food, stability, no one hitting us, fending for ourselves. I would like to go to c) fully mature adults with stable jobs, secure identities the Yardale school cannot use to track us down, and perfectly happy lives, with possibilities for college, friendships-"

"Marriage," Maria teases, which makes both Christophe and Gregory turn bright red.

"Actually, Status Quo C should probably be renamed Status Quo D. Status Quo C will be whatever we have to do until we reach maturity and have created these identities and social networks. We require some form of primary, secondary, and probably tertiary education. We need money, which means we need jobs, which is impossible at our age. We need connections in order to create new identities for ourselves, which, again, are also impossible at our age. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that we need parents."

"What!" Maria exclaims. "Okay, most of what you just said went waaaaay over my head, but parents! What!"

"There is a reason children our age have them," Gregory says with a touch of sarcasm. "You might remember how much easier life was when we had them to provide food for us."

"I can't remember my parents at all," Maria says fiercely. "I can only remember my brother and his friends taking coals from the fire and shoving them in my mouth because he thought it was funny."

She opens her mouth to show them the scars, then closes it defiantly. They share a quiet moment of triumph in the fact that Jorge is still back at Yardale.

"Oh, that's a lie. I remember two things my parents did to me. First, they told me I was just looking for attention when I didn't talk to them because my mouth hurt too much to open it. They told me I was just trying to get my brother into trouble when I told them he was the one who burnt me and beat me. They told me the bruises were just from falling."

"And then they sold me to the Yardale school, which makes what that _maricón_ did to me and all the other children in the neighborhood who were weaker than him . . . it makes him look like a saint, and he's not, he's a fucking bastard. My parents gave me up to them, Gregory, and I am not going back to them. Screw your status quo 'd' future. Screw my parents. I would rather live homeless and starving and cold with you guys than survive my parents. That's the difference between living and surviving, _maricón_. And I'm going to live."

Gregory watches her for a moment, then says, "I don't want us to return to our old parents. I share your sentiments on the matter."

"Good." Maria crosses her arms, glares at him, and slouches back against the alley wall, opposite Chase and Gregory. She glowers at the other three, who are watching her with only the tiniest amount of concern. "Stop it!" she snaps. None of them like to talk about the past much.

"All right," Christophe agrees. "Maria, shut up and listen to what Gregory 'as to say."

"Hey!"

"_Both _of you listen to me," Gregory orders. They fall silent.

"What about new parents?" he says.

Maria ogles him.

"We don't have to go back to the old ones. I don't even remember our address, and they would surely return us to the Yardale school for an even larger sum of money even if we did manage to locate them. Instead, I believe we should try to assimilate ourselves into a new family, preferably American since they seem to be easiest to fool."

"'ow?" Christophe swallows his last hunk of bagel, muttering his words around the food.

Gregory shrugs. "That's what I'm trying to figure out. Americans have foster care in place, and almost any family we randomly clung to would most certainly at least report us to the polite, which would result in the Yardale School locating us. We have to find people who won't ask us too many questions, who won't let anyone else ask us questions, and who won't post pictures of us anywhere someone might record them."

"If zere's one zing I know about Americans, it ees zat zey are all litigious assholes," Christophe points out.

"Always nosy," Chase adds in agreement. He scoots up next to Gregory and curls his body against him. Christophe grins slightly. At least Chase will always be the same. Hopefully.

"So. We need a family," Gregory begins.

"We _are_ a family." Maria clenches her fists.

"Yes, we are," he agrees. "And we need fake parents."

The two of them start to argue. Christophe sighs and tips his head back while their conversation dissolves.

Then Christophe hears the shouting.

XXX

My cramped body unfolds slowly. I crawl out of the cage with horrific slowness. I've already examined the room, I already know it well, but I drink in my surroundings once again.

Blank, white walls. High ceiling. Fluorescent lights. Two escape routes; one the guarded door, one the huge glass window, although we're seven stories up and jumping out of it would be borderline suicidal.

An A/C hums.

Six people sit around the metal table. I know them all to be Angels, the strongest of their kind. There used to be seven, but we killed Mr. White, who brought us until this heaven-disguised purgatory eleven years ago. I remember his frightened, wide-eyed expression right before I slammed my first shovel down on his head, and smile. Somehow, I manage to keep the smirk on my face as the six angels examine me.

"Beautiful day, eesn't eet?" I snark.

One of the angels, a woman (at least, I think she's a woman – it's difficult to tell with Angels, as I'm pretty sure they're all sexless) leans forward against the table and props her hands up. I resist the urge to shrink away from their gazes. They're just angels, and I'm a High Heavenfilth. Hierarchy dictates I should be the one telling them to fuck off. Unfortunately, they have us all under their control.

Soldiers, low Heavenfilth, stand around me with their heads bowed slightly. I wish they would do that for me.

"Have you questioned him?" the woman asks in a velvet voice.

"He's been difficult," one of the soldiers says, and jams me in the ribs with the butt of his gun. I whirl at him, baring my teeth, but he just smirks and my shoulders slump. Kicking their asses right her and right now will not get me out of here any faster.

"Too bad," an angel murmurs, and they mutter amongst themselves. Finally, the first angel speaks up. "We hate to see one of god's disciples forget their holy duty."

"I was never one of zat asshole's slaves, you fuck-eeng cocksuckers-" I start to snarl. She tries to silence me with a look, but I keep spitting out the words.

"You zink you can make me fight for you, you zink you can make me do your dirty work and kill everyone in your stupid war. Well, fuck you, because you cannot!"

The angels are quiet for a few seconds.

Then the first angel laughs. She seems to be the leader now that Mr. White's gone.

"We'll continue with his re-introduction as planned," she says. "He's perfect, just perfect."

"Burn in 'ell, beetch!"

Soldiers grab my shoulders and start to drag me out of the room. I don't even bother to struggle.

"Make sure he gets a tour!" she calls.

XXX

At least they don't shove me back into a cage. They just deposit me in the hallway.

"Someone will be here soon to show you around and explain things to you," one of the soldiers snaps. "Try to escape and we'll fry your head off with the collar, then stick you in the Fridge for a couple more days."

The other soldiers snort and leave. I lean with my head back against the wall. I wonder where Damien is. They hauled his cage off the second the plane touched down. Probably because he can still use some of his powers even with the weird scripture whispers around his neck. They seem to trust me not to be able to figure anything about my powers out. Admittedly, I should have been working on them since Day 1 one my escape. In ten years, I've managed to . . . dig a little faster, which is totally useless without my shovel.

"Christophe?"

I look up from my musings, and freeze when I see a slight female figure turning down the hall.

Her short black hair sticks up over her head. Her chewed-off fingernails are painted neon blue. There's a scar over her right eye and another one running over her left cheek, jagged slices that mar her features. She's skinny, muscled, and wears jeans and a black t-shirt. I can't recognize her for a few seconds, even though I know who she must be.

"Oh," I say.

"_Maricón_," Maria sobs out, then she sprints towards me and throws herself into my arms.

I catch her and hold her and hug her tight. We clutch at each other for a few minutes, her tears staining my shirt and her arms tight around me. She keeps swearing at me, but I tune her out and hug her.

"I am taller zan you now," I tell her when we finally break apart.

"Only like half an inch." She wipes her eyes and glowers at me.

"Still. If you pulled zat run-eeng and hug-eeng zing ten years ago, you would 'ave toppled me." Back then I'd been way too skinny; at least now I have some muscle.

"Thanks for ditching us, asshole," she mutters, her fingers still clenching my shirt.

I don't say anything back.

"But I'm glad you got out," she adds. Her eyes close, and she mutters, "you're still an asshole."

**Review if you feel like it. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Today's my birthday, yay! I'm updating my stories as a happy birthday to me. **

** Thank you everyone who reviewed; I've been too lazy to reply to reviews but I will for this chapter, I swear (hint, hint). I only spent about half an hour editing for typos (I probably should -_-) so hopefully there isn't too much off with it. Please enjoy chapter eleven.**

**xxx**

They huddle behind the dumpster, clutching at each other, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. The dogs bark, far-off. Christophe hears the shouting of the low Heavenfilth.

"They can't be far!" one of them shouts.

Footsteps pound past them.

Maria's elbow digs into his gut. Chase wraps his chubby arms around Christophe's neck. The four of them curl into a pile, panic flaring through their veins.

They only just barely managed to scramble behind the dumpster before they heard the shouts. They hid just in time. Christophe is starting to be able to tell which one of the soldiers are low Heavenfilth. There's something in the way they walk, their confident strides that just seem a little too light.

Soldiers run past them, their boots clomping against the alley pavement.

Christophe can almost smell Gregory's fear. Sickly sweet, almost putrid. Like rotten fruit. The unwashed reek encompassing the four of them doesn't smell either.

A dog's nose pokes behind the dumpster and snuffles. Chase starts to let out a squeak but Maria plants a hand over his mouth.

The nose brushes against Christophe's ratted, stolen sneakers. He bites his lip hard enough to tear at it.

The nose shuffles along to Maria's ankle, which is bare below her ripped jeans. They all hold their breaths.

Then the dog lunges forward and sinks its teeth into her ankle.

She screams as it starts to drag her out. Gregory clutches her around the waist, but the mutt yanks her flailing form from behind the dumpster. The other kids scramble after her.

The dog is a German shepherd, huge, almost as large as her. It deposits her in the center of the alleyway. She tries to scramble away, but it catches her ankle again and drags her back. There's a _crack! _as bone shatters. She wails. The other dogs converge around her.

The three children shout and start to attack their dogs. Christophe punches at one, but it snatches his fist in its mouth and crunches down. He screams, struggling wildly, but it keeps its teeth firmly locked around his wrist.

"There they are!"

Through his haze of pain, he manages to look up and catch a glimpse of the soldiers hurdling down the alley towards them.

SLAM!

The grip on his wrist releases. Chase holds a chunk of cinderblock. The dog clutching Christophe collapses, and he yanks back, gasping, tears dripping down his cheeks from the pain in spite of himself.

Chase whacks the cinderblock down on one of the dogs tearing at Gregory. Gregory kicks the other one off him and stumbles to his feet, blood running down his face, his hair matted, his eyes wild.

Maria screams, dogs biting at her skin. Chase lets out a howl of rage and cries, "run!" to the other two.

"No!" Christophe starts to look around wildly for where Chase found the cinderblock.

"Just run, you fucking morons! Someone has to be free!"

He's never heard Chase swear before.

Chase lunges into the pile of mutters on Maria, batting at them with the chunk of cement.

Gregory grabs Christophe's broken hand, which makes Christophe scream in pain. Gregory ignores him and drags him down the street. The soldiers are shouting behind them, but they burst into the mob of people out on the city streets.

"Maria! Chase!" Christophe gasps.

"We have to get out of here!" Gregory snarls back.

"But-"

"We can't save them!"

He drags Christophe along, ignoring his cries. They head into a large park, sprint down the bicycle paths, then into the trees, lost in the growth around them. Finally, Gregory hoists Christophe into a tree and pushes him up to one of the higher branches.

Christophe leans against the trunk, struggling for air. Gregory perches on the branch below him.

"Ze Yardale school . . . eet will take zem back," he finally mutters. "And zey are going to make zere lives living 'ell."

Gregory stays silent, drawing in shallow breathes.

"You zink what 'appened to us before was 'ell? You 'ave no idea, English fag. You didn't go zrough what I did. You don't know what zey're willing to make us do-"

"Only because you won't bloody tell me!" Gregory screams.

Christophe stares down at him. He's never seen Gregory like this before, Gregory so desperately afraid.

"We 'ave to go after zem," he says.

"I don't have a plan."

"Eet's not about 'aving a plan. Eet's about doing what we 'ave to in order to save our friends."

"We'll get caught."

"We still 'ave to."

"Don't you get it. Christophe!" he screams. "I don't know what to do! I don't fucking know what to do!"

He's quiet for a long time after that.

I keep my hands jammed in my pockets as Maria shows me around the Yardale school.

"It hasn't changed much. Or, like, at all."

She talks fast, her words slurring together.

We take the stairs. None of us ever use elevators any more.

My words clog in my throat. We haven't spoken to each other in ten years. We should catch up or something, right?

The stairs are air-conditioned, the fluorescent lights humming. We walk slowly. We don't have any reason to rush. I catch a clock before we enter the stairwell. It's about ten o clock at night, although I don't feel too tired because I'm two time zones off and all I've done today is crouch in a cage and direct a demon in saving an innocent boy from dying of blood loss and infection.

Pretty typical day.

I wonder if they're still abusing Butters, if they got him some medical attention. Probably not. Cocksucking assholes.

"How'd you manage to stay free?" she murmurs as we clamber to the second floor.

"I ran and I 'id and I didn't trust anyone." I give her a wry smile. "'Ow'd zey manage to keep you in 'ere?"

She shrugs.

"Do you want out?"

She shrugs.

"You do, don't you?" I ask, alarmed. If she doesn't want out – if Maria, the queen of stubbornness and hot-headed tempers doesn't want out – then they must have broken her several times.

"I think so," she says quietly, her lips barely moving. She glances up at the video camera. Then her lips twist into a smile. "Hear that,_ maricónes_? I want out of this fucked-up place!"

Then her laughter dies.

"There's no point, Christophe. We can't get the collars off."

She tugs at the metal band around her neck.

"I did, once."

"No way we could pull shit like you did," she snaps. "I still can't believe you fucking did that. That was actually fucking insane."

"Zank you."

"That's not a complete, asshole." She starts to jog up the steps. I grab her arm, she shakes me off, but I manage to convince her to slow down with the pleading look in my eyes.

"Gregory says zat Chase got out once and went to New Orleans after ze 'urricane Katrina."

"That doesn't count. He didn't take off his collar and they knew where he was the whole time. When they came to pick him up after he was done helping people, he didn't even fight, and they congratulated him for saving lives?"

"You mean zey were 'appy 'e 'elped people? I zought zey were all cocksucking assholes who were obsessed wiz winning zis war."

"They are, but they're still angels and stuff, and they still care about helping people." She sighs and pushes her hair out of her eyes with right hand, which is covered in a thick bandage.

I stay quiet for a few seconds, then I say:

"Do zey still 'ave all ze insane training? Ze life-or-deathz battle practices? Do ze-"

I manage not to ask if they still make them kill low Hellspawn. It's a touchy subject for all of us. Battling a monstrous demon who's trying to kill you is much different than slaughtering defenseless citizens who want to be there about as much as you do.

She jams her own hands into her pockets. "Yeah," she mutters. "All the same shit as before. We've got more freedom now, though. Sometimes they'll let Chase or me leave the school and go into the city, as long as we're accompanied with a guard."

"But never withz Gregory." We're on the fourth floor now, still heading up at a slow pace.

She makes a face. "They let us see him sometimes, when they're not sending him on one of his missions. They send him around the world killing higher-strength demons, converting simple heaven-allied cities into entire armies of low Heavenfilth."

"You do realize 'e 'as been hunting me down for years, and eet ees only because of 'im zat I am now captured."

"They made him, Christophe."

"Oh, really." My voice drips sarcasm. "Zen why did 'e do such a damn good job of eet?"

"They said he had to throw himself into hunting you down to prove his loyalty to them, that if he didn't they would hurt Chase and me worse." Her face colors with shame. We stop walking and face each other.

"Ees zat what 'e tells you."

"You used to trust him," she spits out.

"I knew 'e was ze trickster type from ze start."

"But you used to trust him. You used to love him. You used to love all of us."

"I still do, Maria."

She closes her eyes.

"They don't want to kill us, we're too valuable. But, Christophe, when we were little kids, right after you escaped, they Gregory if he didn't show them regular reports of trying to hunt you down, they would force Chase and me to fuck and have more High Heavenfilth kids when we got older. Breed like animals. Then they would send us out on the front lines when the final battle came. We'd make them win the war and we'd probably die in the process." Her mouth twists ruefully. "We'll probably still die when the final battle comes. All three of us. All four of us. But at least they think Heaven's army will win with us on their side."

"_Mozzerefucker_," I hiss out.

"Hey," she says. "At least I'm not raped anymore. Gregory put a stop to that. He has a shitload of influence. He basically makes it so the two of us aren't kept under lock and key."

"_Mozzerefucker," _I hiss out again.

"He just wants to make sure we're all okay," she says softly. "Even though he's their general, they make him wear that title."

"Even zough zere's a collar around 'is neck-" I jab at my own. "Zat does not mean 'e 'as not grown to used to ze way eet feels. Zat doesn't mean 'e's not going to 'elp ze fuckers who work for zat cocksucking asshole, god. And zat doesn't mean we're not going to get out of 'ere, all of us. You. Me. Chase. I promise you zat."

I glower at her.

She twists out a smile.

"And I will never work for 'eaven. I will never take zere side in zis stupid battle. I will never fight for zem."

She pats me on the arm.

XXX

We head up the stairs and get to the seventh floor. Home. Yay.

"What 'ave you been up to?" I ask her. "In zese past ten years. . . 'ave your powers . . . "

She looks triumphant. "Oh, yeah, I guess you wouldn't know how to use yours, would you. Hahhah. Sucks for you. I can do so much cool shit with mine. Can't escape, though. This collar is made of sky-metal and restricts me pretty well. Still pretty fucking awesome the stuff I can do. I can like, start fires, and heal, and make there really cool swords-"

"I can shovel dirt."

She pokes me in the ribs triumphantly.

"What have you been doing?"

"I've become a mercenary." I smile to myself.

She lifts her eyebrows. I give her a short job description as we head down the hallway.

"How'd you get caught, anyway?"

"Zis asshole, ze son of Satan-"

I explain the Damien think to her, leaving out information about the Hellspawn in South Park and anything identifying.

"Holy shit," she says, and then she leads me into my old bedroom.

My breath catches at the sight. It's exactly the way I left it. The posters of a TV show I'd watched in France as a kid, little trinkets they let me buy, the white-and-black checked bedspread, and wide windows.

They've barely touched my room since I left.

The person sitting on my old bed has changed more drastically than anything else. He's tall, almost a foot and a half taller than me, and solid muscle. His skin is creamy coffee-colored, his hair like frizzy wires drilled into his skull. His muscles bulge.

Chase looks nothing like the chubby, tiny little boy he was ten years ago. But his expression breaks into a smile when he sees me, and he jumps forward, wrapping his arms around me.

"Moron." He sobs and hugs me, strong enough to lift me up and wrap into a bear hug. He drags Maria in so it's a group hug, pressing as all together and his tears wetting our clothes. He's still a physical contact whore.

He doesn't ask me the same questions as Maria. He just pulls me down onto my bed and hugs me. Maria joins him. They feel like my long-lost family, really, holding me until we all fall asleep, just like the old days. And as much as I am loathe to admit it, I am home.

XXX

The next day she wakes me up (fucking morning person) and hauls my ass down to the cafeteria. I'm surprised there's no guard to escort her. Back when we were kids, they always had to have someone with us to make sure we followed their 'routine.'

"They'll have someone show us around if we're doing something special that day," she says in response to my raised eyebrows. She lifts the lid of the first tin of the breakfast buffet, revealing bacon. Oh, fuck, I'm so hungry.

"But since you're here, I think they just want you to get used to being back in Yardale again."

"Fuck zem."

I grab a plate and start to shovel sausages on it. I eat one while I wait in line for the low Heavenfilth soldiers and the angels in front of us to hurry up.

"Christophe!" she scolds.

"I 'aven't eaten real food in days," I mumble around a second sausage. "Zey tried ze whole 'starve you until you cannot fight back anymore' technique."

"Dios, I hate it when they do that one."

"Even so, I can cook better zan zis."

"You cook?" she asks, which makes me flush bright red.

"Maybe," I mutter.

She jeers at me as we pile food on our plates. Hash browns. Slices of apples and bananas. French toast, sticky with syrup. Mugs of coffee await us at the end. And when I spot a low Heavenfilth smoking, I manage to wheedle a cigarette out of him. That would never have worked when we would kids (I'd probably have to suck him off back then). But one glance at my smirking, demanding expression and he gives me the cigarette without complaint.

"What was up wizth zat?" I demand as we search for the table farthest away from the angels and the low Heavenfilth.

"I told you, Gregory's influence has helped us a lot." She pulls out a chair at the table in the corner and plops down. I slide my tray onto the table. Oh, fuck, it smells so good. I dig in as fast as I can.

"Plus, you know, we actually have the magical powers of High Heavenfilth now, even if they're restrained."

"_You_ do."

"You_ will."_

I glower at her. "No, I won't," I mumble around my food.

"Why don't you want to learn to use your powers? They're pretty damn useful, you know."

"If I can use magic," I mutter, "eet's just anozzere reason for zem to try and control me."

She sighs. "Goddamn it, Christophe, it's useful."

"I do not care."

She picks at her food.

"I do want my shovel back, zough," I add.

"You use magic in your shovel," she points out.

"Eet's not ze same."

"I know." She sighs again. She never did it so much when we were kids. "They want me to help you train anyway. After breakfast."

"Fine." I smirk. "But do not expect me to jump zrough zeir fucking 'oops."

Chase joins us, dropping his tray onto the table and sitting next to me. He scoots up close enough to me to throw an arm around my shoulder as he eats.

"I didn't really see your face last night," he says, and gives a slight, sad smile.

I run my fingers through his super-curly hair, even though I have to reach up to do so. He's so warm, like a space heater.

It's because of him my face isn't hideously scarred. I never really did thank him for that. Of course, I happened to be holding God hostage at the time I realized what he'd done, so he might excuse my lack of thanks.

I tell him thank you now, and he smiles and hugs me, and it's almost normal (only our sickening, twisted version of normal).

XXX

WHAM!

"_Sheeet_!"

WHAM!

The fist catches me in the gut. I double over, gagging out, "_sheeeet! Sheeet_!"

She plants a kick on my chest. I topple to the ground, flop my arms and legs out.

"All right," I say wearily. "I admit defeat."

"Nice try."

Maria drags me up to my feet, smirking.

"You've already kicked my ass-"

She hooks an elbow around my neck and throws me to the ground yet again, sinking back again.

"Get up!"

"Fuck! No!"

"Come on, Christophe, you said you were fine without using magic."

"Fuck! You are not even using any magic right now!"

"Yeah," she says, smirking. "I'm kicking your butt through sheer badassery."

I tilt my head back and stay. She plops down next to me. We both stare up at the sky above us. A huge chain-link fence surrounds us, giving us about a 100X100 foot area to fight. Dry, dead October grass brushes against my back, prickling my shoulders, exposed by my uniform tank top. At least out of South Park the weather knows what the fuck it's doing. Several guards stand at the doorway to the training grounds.

Maria rolls over so she's looking at me. "You need to learn to fight better," she says. Like me, she's wearing the uniform outfit, which I haven't seen her in since my return. She's still fitted with one a size too large for her.

"I fight fine. Just give me a fucking shovel."

"So you still fight with it a lot?"

"You 'ave no idea." I smirk at her.

She grins, rises to her feet, and offers me a hand. I take it, and she drags me up. Then she punches me in the face and I stumble back.

"God fucking damn it! You fucking beetch!"

She laughs, which I do not find amusing, as I'm pretty sure she broke my nose. Gentleman aren't supposed to hit ladies, but a) Maria's not a lady, she's a maniac b) I'm an equal-opportunity mercenary and c) I'm not a fucking gentleman.

"Beetch!"

I try to whack her again, but she grabs my wrist and throws me back to the ground.

"Goddamn it," I sigh. She offers me another hand, but I refuse to get back up.

"Wimp."

"Freak."

"Jackass."

"Beetch."

"Asshole."

"You 'ave anger-management issues."

"I do not!"

She fumes for a little bit before sitting next to me again.

"Seriously," I say. "If I 'ad my shovel, I would have destroyed you."

"Sure," she says.

"I am serious. Do you know where eet ees? My shovel?"

She stares at me. "Can't you just get another one?"

". . . I don't want another one."

"What is it, your boyfriend slash girlfriend slash whatever the fuck you're into? Or something?"

"Yes, Maria. I'm dating my fucking shovel. Zis makes _complete_ sense."

She rolls her eyes. A few seconds pass.

"So." She tips her head back. I hear her voice, even though I'm not staring at her, I'm staring at the pretty little clouds above me.

"You have a significant other, or something?"

"Maria." I sigh. "I 'ave been on ze run for ten years."

"Come on," she wheedles.

"Why do you care?"

"I was just wondering – Gregory-"

"I do not fucking trust Gregory," I snarl.

She's quiet for a while.

"What about you?" I ask after a few seconds.

"I've had even less social interaction than you, and up until a few years ago I was raped and beaten whenever I bitched someone out for forcing me to kill people. It's not exactly conducive to relationships."

"Fuck."

We're both quiet.

"You need to learn to fight better," she says.

"I know."

"And to use magic."

"Fuck. No."

"It'll help."

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"It-"

"I do not see why you are so eager to 'elp out ze Yardale school when all zey 'ave been doing is torturing you for ze past ten years."

"Because we're stuck here," she mutters. "And frankly, Christophe, the other side isn't great either. I've seen demons slaughter people. I've been one of the people stopping them from slaughtering those same people. Maybe Heaven winning this war won't be so bad. Sure, they fuck **us** over, but everyone else turns out okay."

"I still nevairre signed up to be one of ze people who was fucked over."

"None of us signed up for this stupid war," she snaps, "but we're fighting it anyway and we have to chose a side."

"We don't have to choose a side." I stand up and start to walk to the gate entrance. My muscles groan in protest. Forget tomorrow: I'm already fucking sore right now.

"Eet's called being independent. Eet's called not choosing just because someone tells you zat you 'ave to. Eet's called being free. And I will not fight for 'eaven."

I rattle the chain link fence. One of the guards opens it up and lets me out. He reeks of Heaven; all the guards do.

"Take me back to the school," I growl in order. I hear Maria doing push-ups behind us as they lead me up to the brick-and-metal building I call my hell and my home.

XXX

They tell me to make myself scarce as soon as we get through the doorways. I immediately go down to the basement.

"I want to see Damien," I tell the Heavenfilth serving at the pseudo-receptionist working behind the table in the bottom floor of the Yardale School.

She/he (it's an angel, so difficult to tell) looks skeptical, but orders a guard to follow me back into the prison.

It's rank as soon as I step into the cells. It smells like human sweat, excrement, and blood. The light is dim. The cells are barely large enough for most of the victims to stretch out. They all stare at me with dull eyes as I move down the aisles. My guard follows me, trailing a half-dozen feet behind.

At least not all the cells are full. My stomach still twists.

Damien's cell is near the end. My hands clench into fists when I see him.

He's in a pair of ragged jeans and nothing more. Stitches run over his neck, fraying at the seam as if they ripped off his head again. Bruises dots his exposed flesh. I wonder if the scripture makes him heal slower. He looks like he hasn't eaten in approximately forever.

His right hand is cuffed to the wall. He slouches on the ground, back against metal. His gaze flickers up when he hears my footsteps.

"Glad to see you're doing better," he mutters.

I shrug. "I am alive," I answer.

They must have beaten him again; trying to force some answers out of him. The fucking bastard won't give in. How the hell have they managed to hurt him so much in a day?

"Ees Butters all right?"

"I don't know," he rasps out. "They dragged him off a couple hours ago. He was doing better than when he was on the plane, though."

I stand in awkward silence for a few seconds.

Then I turn to my guard. "Cannot I get 'im out?" I demand.

"Uh . . . no," he says in a bored voice. "That's the whole point of us locking him in there in the first place. So he can't get out."

"Ees zere anyone zat I can talk to zat will convince me to let 'im out?"

Eventually, I ending up bargaining with one of the leading six angels about letting Damien come up to my room and get out of his cell. S/he took sadistic pleasure in telling me the next day I would be attending forced magic lessons.

One of the main conditions (there are about three dozen, actually) is that I'm with Damien at all times. Another is that the scripture-whispering-freaky-collar stays around his neck, again, at all times.

Damien is silent.

I sit on my bed, and he sits in the corner of my room. His eyes are ringed with red.

"Thanks," he mutters.

"We are working togezerre. We are friends now." I give him a wry smile. "Ze least I can do is get your sorry ass out of a shithole every now and zen."

He shakes his head. "They'll just drag me back there."

I've never seen him like this before: so depressed, so uncaring. I stand up and stomp over to him, although my bare feet make it much less impressive.

"Deedn't _you_ tell _me _to snap out of eet?" I snarl angrily. "Don't start acting like a pussy now."

He sighs. His ratted dark hair falls into his eyes. He needs a shower. "Look, Christophe, ever since they captured me, like, eight days ago, I haven't eaten, I've had my head ripped off several times, I've been tortured, I've sucked off three different guys to convince them to bring me cigarettes – I really fucking need one right now, by the way – and my dad still hasn't done anything about it. He probably knows exactly what happened to me, to, he's just making me go through all this shit to build character or something."

I crouch down next to him and say mildly, "Your dad ees a huge beetch. I've met 'im."

"I know." He closes his eyes.

"What's zis?" I tease softly. "Ze prince of darkness showing me weakness?"

"Eh," he mutters. "I don't feel very princely right now. No antichrist should be reduced to giving blowjobs for cigarettes."

I pull a cigarette from my pocket. "You can 'ave zis one for free."

He lights it with his finger, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort. He places the cigarette on his lips and takes long inhale. He exhales, and smoke puffs out around him. He sighs.

"No more self-pity." I help him to his feet. "We've all 'ad to do 'orrible zings to survive. I will see if I can get you some food soon. But for now." I lower my voice. "We 'ave to start planning our escape."

"Cameras," he mutters under his breath.

"Zey're in each corner." I motion to each one with a flick of my head. They're designed to look like air conditioners.

"We'll rip 'em out when I say go. I bet it'll take them at least eight minutes to get here and take us down."

Damien's guard is probably standing outside my room, and they can just radio him and tell him what's going on. I hesitate.

. . . it probably would buy us a few minutes to talk, even if it means-

"Zey'll take you back to your cell," I whisper.

"No, they won't." He smirks. "I've got a plan."

"Fine."

"Go."

I lunge to the right side of the room and stand on the bed to reach the ceiling. My fist crashes through the fake air conditioner. I hiss in pain as shards of metal graze my skin, but my teeth grit down and I yank out wires. Then I jog to a second corner and have to jump to reach the ceiling.

By the time I've finished, Damien's also managed to deal with his cameras. We sit on my bed. My adrenaline pumps, my heart rate picking up.

"Any plans?" he asks. "Do you have allies here?"

"Zere were zree ozzere children who survived becoming 'igh 'eavenfilth. One of zem is ze guy named Gregory, the blond kid who captured ze two of us in ze first place. We aren't on ze best of terms. 'e 'unted me down for nine years. Ze ozzere two are named Chase and Maria. We were all best of friends back when we were kids. I zink Chase and Maria want to escape, but zey are too afraid right now."

"Gregory is one of the High Heavenfilth, right? The way I figured it, the angels have you guys under lock and key. Why does he get so much freedom?"

"Because 'e ees very, very good at being ruthzless," I say grimly. "'e sort of does zeir dirty work for zem, and 'e 'as since 'e was a kid when 'e first started chasing after me."

He's quiet for a second, thinking. "Does he still care about you? As friends?"

The question catches me off guard, but I don't have enough time to ask him to reason out his question for me. "I believe so." The words almost hurt to say. "Ze main reason 'e ees 'elping ze angels and God so much ees because zey will do 'orrible zings to Chase and Maria if 'e does not. And when we were talking, 'e seemed to still care about . . . me."

"Okay." Damien rubs his temples. "Currently, we're hoping the High Hellspawn back in the South Park – Stan, Kyle, Kenny, Cartman – will come help us, or their friend Butters, at least. Pip might come as well. He knows you and I were captured by now, probably, and he'll do a lot to help me. I'm his friend." He smiles, sardonic. "He'll probably tell Stan's gang pretty much everything he knows, and I wouldn't put it past them to figure out where the Yardale school is. Crazier shit has happened in South Park. They'll probably make it out here to help us."

"We've got zese damn collars on, zough, and if we don't 'ave a methzod of getting zem off, if Stan's gang and Pip try to rescue us zey'll be captured too, just like Butters."

"You did it when you were seven, didn't you?"

"Zose circumstances are not somezthing we could replicate."

He doesn't ask. "What I think we have to do is try to get on Gregory's good side."

I narrow my eyes.

"Gregory's got a ton of power – I could tell when he captured us – and he's afraid to use it. He's also got a lot of command. If we could convince him the only way to make sure all four of you are safe, then he would probably be willing to use it."

"I tried to do zat when we were seven."

"Maybe he's changed."

"Yes. 'E's become a slave to ze Yardale School. Now 'e _definitely _won't 'elp us."

"Stop it, Frenchie," he snaps. I open my mouth to argue, but he glowers at me to shut it.

As much as I hate being cut off, it's refreshing to see the old Damien.

"We don't have time to argue," he says. "I'm just saying, getting Gregory to come around is our best bet. Then we'll be able to get the collars off, and then when Stan's gang gets here they'll be able to get us out, if Gregory already hasn't figured that one out."

"What about your fazzere?"

"My dad's an asshole," he spits out. "He won't help me. He'll probably just think, 'oh, my stupid son got himself into this mess,' and leave me to rot. He really has no idea how to be a parent."

"Zey're going to try to use you to bargain witzh him."

"Yeah, it's not going to work. He won't give up this stupid war they're about to start."

"'Stupid' war." I eye him. "So, you agree witzh me. Zis fight ees stupid. We shouldn't pick sides."

He shrugs. "I guess."

"Well, you're ze only one I know who agrees witzh me, so zank you for zat."

He shakes his head, smiling slight, his matted dark hair falling into his eyes. The bed squeaks as he shifts position.

"Any ideas for working on Gregory?"

I shake my head.

"We have to make this situation unbearable for him," he says finally. "Currently, he's sticking with the status quo because it doesn't suck so much that he needs out. We need to change that."

"I don't want to 'urt ze cocksucker," I say. "I just wish 'e would 'ave stopped 'unting me years ago." I think about my statement. "Actually, I do want to punch 'im. But I don't want to 'urt him in a way zat would be worse zan what ze Yardale School does."

"What's the worse part of his life here?" Damien asks, ignoring my concerns.

I glare at him, but it's been five minutes since we smashed the cameras. We still don't have time to argue. Asshole.

"Probably ze Grayson lady," I mutter finally.

He raises his eyebrows.

"She 'as always 'ad . . . an interest in 'im. Even back when 'e was a little boy. I don't know if she ees still doing ze same zings to 'im. If she ees, then we might be able . . ." My voice trails off when I hear the pounding on the door.

"Fuck," Damien mutters. He grinds his burnt-out cigarette into the carpet with his bare heel. As much I hate to admit it, he can be pretty fucking badass sometimes.

"They figured out we smashed the cameras. Okay, time to put my plan into action. Christophe, you have to trust me and go along with whatever I do."

"What?"

"Please!"

"Eh . . . "

"Let us in, you motherfuckers!" one of the soldiers outside snarls. "Let us in and we won't set you in the Fridge for more than a week."

"If you zink eet will get us out of being punished," I say, my words slurring together from anxiety. Have I mentioned I hate the Fridge?

He sucks in a deep breath and grabs the hem of my tank top, ripping it over my head and leaving me naked from the waist up.

"What are you-"

"Just trust me, Christophe."

"You are an asshole, which you 'ave proven to me several times."

"I know, I know, but just trust me." He pushes me back onto the bed until I lay on my back. I raise my eyebrows when he moves forward to straddle me.

"What ze fuck do you zink you're doing-"

He bends over and kisses me. My eyes freeze open as I feel his lips against mine.

"Just trust me," he mutters, and then goes back to kissing me.

I see his plan, although I want to kill him for it. I sigh inwardly and kiss him back. I don't particularly hate kissing. I've kissed boys and girls in the last few years, randomly, sometimes as part of my job and sometimes because I was curious. It feels almost pleasant sometimes, like reassurance. To me it means_ I am here for you and I trust you, _which is not how I feel about Damien, but it's not like I hate the skin on skin contact. I might not be into sex at all, but I'm not aromantic.

I feel him wriggling his jeans off his skinny hips, so he's left in his boxers. I shift my sweatpants halfway off my waist with my free hands. He uses what little magic available to him to give off heat, making both of us sticky with sweat as if we'd really just spent the last ten plus minutes making out.

I hear the door smash open but I pretend to be too wrapped up in Damien to care.

"Er-" one of the guards says. Damien yanks back but stays straddling me. I open my eyes. We definitely look like we were about to have sex.

"Damien, you said you zought we'd 'ave more time," I pant out, making my voice low.

"Uh . . ." he says. We both try our best to look sheepish.

"Can you get off him?" one of the soldiers asks.

Damien's still panting heavily. He rolls off me and starts to search for his jeans on the bed. He has a hard-on, which helps our case but still mortifies me. I pull up my sweatpants to hide the fact I'm not aroused.

"Um . . ." The guards glance back and forth between each other. "We were supposed to put you in the Fridge for a couple days-" He jerks his head at me. "And we were supposed to cut off your head and plant it to the ground with a pole so it wouldn't grow back. But . . . uh . . . "

"Maybe we should ask the angels," another of the guards says.

"Cockblockers," Damien mutters. "We haven't had sex in, like, a week. It wasn't like we wanted you fucking watching us."

"Um." They glance at each other awkwardly.

They decide to take us to the angels.

**That slashy goodness is my birthday present to all of you. The story is about ½ over, I think. Please review if you feel like it! **


	12. Chapter 12

** Thank you everyone who reviewed! I enjoyed writing this chapter. I hope you enjoy reading it just as much. **

**Random chronological note: Little!Christophe was sold to the Yardale School in October. It is now March in his timeline. It was September of a bit more than ten years later when Big!Christophe met Damien. It is now October. I hope no one's confused (I know I am – I'm always confused about Chronology). **

**Enjoy this chapter. **

They're hiding again, even though it's too late for the cops to be out looking for runaways and the low Heavenfilth soldiers from Yardale have already left. Christophe doesn't know what they're hiding from. All he knows is Gregory insists they stay tucked in the tree, curled up amongst the branches, even when the navy blue of night starts to bleed into dawn.

Gregory grips his uninjured hand hard enough for Christophe's fingers to turn white, to tinge purple. At first he thinks it's because Gregory wants to keep him in the tree. Now he knows Gregory's terrified of what will happen if he lets go.

This isn't right. Gregory isn't supposed to be the scared one. He's supposed to be calculating and unfeeling, not this trembly seven-year-old.

"We 'ave to go after zem."

"No," he says without looking up.

"We should. We . . . we 'ave to go."

"It's too dangerous."

"Please." Christophe is pleading now. He never pleads.

"Don't be stupid," Gregory snarls. "I said, it's dangerous."

"So?" Christophe screeches, his voice slicing through central park. Gregory motions for him to quiet down with a flick of his wrist.

They've had this argument four times in the past hour.

"Fuck you!" he screams, because he's not going to back down anymore, not to this scared little boy who needs to have his hand held. "Fuck you, Gregory, you fucking British fag! I'll save zem all on my own!"

He wrenches his hand from Gregory's grasp and leaps from the tree. He lands hard in a crouch, wincing when the impact sends pain shooting through his injured wrist. Gregory cries out after him, but Gregory ignores him, just takes off running, and he really has no fucking idea where he's going.

XXX

This is quite possibly the most awkward moment of my entire life. I stand with my hands shoved into my pockets, staring at the floor. The six angels examine us. Damien would probably be laughing if he weren't so worried about being tortured. The soldiers stand around us, their guns thrown over their shoulders. And, just to make this perfect, Gregory is waiting for a conference with the angels, and he's at the door so he can listen to our every word.

The female angel who seems to be in charge leans forward in her chair. I don't know her name yet, so I think of her as Purple because of her weird eyes.

"You're in a sexual relationship with the antichrist," she says after a few agonizing minutes.

I wince. Goddamn it, Damien.

"I didn't think even you could possibly stoop this low, Christophe Simon. Have you turned so far away from God that you would touch this filth?"

"Fuck your God," I snap, instantly on edge. "Damien is worz a zousand of 'im."

. . .I don't even trust Damien that much, but damn it, he's hurt me less.

"We cannot permit this," Purple says.

Damien groans next to me. I sigh and wait for him to launch into whatever lie he's come up with.

"See, I knew you assholes would do this. That's why I told him to make sure you guys didn't find out when we were captured. And you won't even let us make out for a few minutes. Fuck you guys." He jerks his chin into the chair. "I don't care if you can't permit this."

"You will not be allowed to see Christophe again," Purple says. "And you will suffer punishment for adultery, both of you." Oh, yeah, angels care about stuff like that.

"Who says we're committing adultery?" Damien snarks.

My eyes widen. No . . . he couldn't be about to say . . .

"You two have obviously had sexual relations. This is unacceptable-"

"It's not adultery," Damien says, "if you're married." And then he throws an arm around me, drags me close to him, and glowers at the angels. My face instantly flushes bright red. I am going to fucking kill him.

The angels are quiet for a few seconds, probably because Damien shocked the shit out of them. And me. I can't even find the words to yell at him. There's no way they'll buy this.

"No rings," Purple says.

"I'm from Hell," Damien says mildly. "We don't exactly follow traditional standards."

"How?" she demands.

He sighs and rakes his hair from his eyes with the hand that's not holding onto me.

"We met a bit over two years ago when he was on a mission to track down a rogue low Hellspawn. He's a mercenary. My father had just stuck me on the same job. It was before he decided to send me up to earth, and he was trying other parenting methods. This one was getting me to help him out with some of his duties. Anyway, we met and-" He shrugs. "We got married August 18th of this year. He still works as a mercenary. When he was injured in the last job hunting down those pedophiles, I took him to Butters' Scotch's house to help him patch up, which is probably why you assholes tracked him down there. Anything else you wanna know?"

The angels stare at us in stunned silence. To hide my horror, I bury my face in Damien's shoulder. "What ze fuck do you zink you are doing?" I mutter.

"Saving both of our asses," he mutters back.

"Well," Purple says after a few seconds. "This . . . changes things."

"You can't hurt him," Damien snarls. "I know you think he's turned away from Heaven, but he was never with you assholes from the start. Don't you dare hurt him for being in love."

I resist the urge to crack up.

"There's nothing wrong with being in love," Purple says with a sigh. "Love is a celebration of life. Love is of God. Perhaps, antichrist, by being in love, you are moving father away from your father."

He doesn't bat an eye. "Perhaps."

"And perhaps, Christophe, by being in love, you'll be closer with God again."

I start to snap out, "I was never on your side, _beetch_," but Damien, knowing me too well, slaps a hand over my mouth.

"Even though he's the antichrist and you're a High Heavenfilth, it's still love, and you two are still married." Purple sighs again. "Very well. I will permit Damien to stay with Christophe."

. . . that was unexpected. Damien's probably doing a mental happy dance, although outwardly he just smiles.

"Thanks, angel lady." And then he plants a kiss on my forehead. I sigh and lean into him. If Damien and I are sharing a room, we'll be able to plot our escape better and they won't be able to torture him as easily anymore. This situation is a win-win for both of us, really. I just wish it didn't involve me pretending to be married to him.

"Christophe? You've been quiet."

I bow my head. "Zank you." The words come out through gritted teeth.

. . . is it just me, or the angels actually being nice? I guess they believe too much in their own warped ideals to ever discard them, even if the ideals are advantageous to us.

Purple scratches her head, a surprisingly humanlike gesture. "I do not blame you for blowing out the cameras, even if it was a little shortsighted," she says.

_ Oh, if only you knew._

"Out of respect for your . . . er . . . privacy, we will not reinstall the cameras. We will, however, put microphones in your room."

It's all I can do not to start to cheer. Sure, they can hear us, but we can write down our plans just as easily. Escaping just became so much easier.

"In addition, the antichrist must either be with you or in your room at all times, unless we summon for him. The scripture will remain around his neck."

Damien curses under his breath. This close to him, I can heart the barest traces of mutterings.

"Please," I plead, "Eet 'urts 'im."

She looks surprised. I suppose I can't remember the last time I said please to one of them, or showed concern for another in front of them.

The angels whisper amongst themselves for a few seconds.

"Very well," she says with a sigh. "We'll fit him with a collar similar to yours, except specifically designed to repress his satanic powers the way yours repress your celestial powers."

My mouth almost drops open. Damien grins widely next to me.

"Zank you," I say again, only this time I mean it.

"Soldier Moore, take him to get it put on." She shakes her head. "Go."

Damien grabs my hand I don't even argue, just start to follow him out of the room. My mind can barely process what just happened. Are the angels really so thrilled about the idea of me being in love that they would grant me and Damien this much freedom? Are they fucking insane? I barely even notice the soldiers flocking around us as we head to the door. How could they be so fucking stupid as to buy this?

"See? That wasn't so hard," Damien mutters in my ear, jerking me out of my thoughts.

I wrench away from him and glare at him. "Don't startle me like zat!" I hiss. "And zat was close! Zey might 'ave really 'urt us if ze angel wizth ze purple eyes wasn't such a romantic."

He starts to respond but I bump into someone and look up. It's Gregory. I jerk back immediately, tense, even though I recognize his scent so easily it hurts. Fresh cloth, leather, blood. It's the scent that defines him.

"I almost didn't believe it," he says mildly, "Until you flipped out on him." His accent cuts through me.

He looks at Damien with undisguised loathing. "You see," he says, "it's impossible to truly tame Christophe. Even if he's in love with you, he'll still be just as contradictory."

Damien smiles. "You must be Gregory. Christophe has told me a lot about you."

I have? Um, maybe a little bit.

"Really? What did he say? Nothing bad, I hope."

"He called you a British fag a couple times, that's all." Damien's mouth curled up in a smirk. "And I don't think crushes back when you were kids really counts, pretty boy. He's mine now."

Gregory's cool, aristocratic demeanor transforms in a flash. "You're a filthy Hellspawn," he growls out. "I went through things with Christophe you will never even comprehend."

"Fucking stop eet," I snap out.

They both stare down at me.

"Damien, cut eet out." I give him a look that says_ we're not really married, remember? _"And Gregory, I don't know what ze fuck ees up witzh you, but I want you to remember zat I fucking 'ate you and you chased me around ze world for nine years."

I swear to God, the fucking, cocksucking bitch in the sky that he is, if my life is developing a love triangle I am going to fucking smother it right here and right now.

Gregory sighs and stalks past me. Damien punches me in the shoulder, lightly.

"Cut eet out," I snap at him again. When I look at him, his face is dark. I remember his temper issues. "Let's go get zat fucking collar switched."

XXX

Damien rubs his new collar, grinning way too happily. His skin is starting to regain its color from just a few minutes without the scripture whispering in his ears. He shoves food into his mouth faster than I do. All we can do is watch him.

"Christophe," Maria whispers, her eyes wide, "why the fuck didn't you tell me you were married to the antichrist?"

"Because I knew you would flip out," I stage-whisper back. "And because we deedn't want ze Yardale School to know."

_Also because I didn't know I was 'married' to him._ I hate lying to Maria and Chase.

"That's sooooo cute!" Chase hugs me around the waist, then dances over to Damien and hugs him. Damien's eyes widen but he doesn't stop eating. He probably hasn't been hugged for a while.

"He's the antichrist," Maria whispers to me, unnecessarily.

"I know."

"Boo," Damien says. She squeals and jumps half an inch, which makes both of us crack up.

The four of us sit at the far table, eating a dinner of what appears to be Domino's pizza. Dinnertime is at six, but since Damien and I missed it they ordered pizza for us. Words do not describe the weirdness.

Chase sits on Damien's other side, clutching at him and rubbing his forehead against his shoulder, like a cat. "You and 'Tophe are sooooooo cute," he squeaks out. "Ohmigod you guys have to adopt a bunch of kids and stay happily married forever and-"

Damien glances to me, the corner of his mouth quirking. "Is he secretly a twelve-year-old girl?"

"I believe so," I mutter.

He stretches his jaw open and shoves an entire slice of pizza into his mouth. I watch with bile fascination as he works his jaw, managing to force the slice down his throat. The other two make gagging sounds.

Damien swallows, which sounds incredibly painful. He smirks at me.

I'm overcome with the desire to try it. I snatch up my own slice of cheese pizza. The other two look away.

. . . my success is painful.

Damien eventually wins our eating contest when he manages to eat three slices in thirty seconds. I tell him it's only because he's been starved for the past few days.

"Remember that time you ate like sixteen slices of French toast?" he reminds me. "I think you've got the advantage here."

I smirk. That was some damn good French toast I made.

"Awwww," Maria says, recovering from her gag-fest. "You guys are almost cute. Except gross." We've gone through three large pizzas in fifteen minutes.

I shift uncomfortably. Cute? Really? Goddamn it.

It's almost eleven o clock at night by the time we head back up to our 'room.' I want to make Damien sleep on the floor, but he wheedles at me until I let him share the bed with me (he said something about how Maria or Chase might barge in here and get suspicious). He comes out looking refreshed after a forty-minute shower, which I'm thankful for because he smelled chokingly bad.

I shower after him. The only good part about Yardale is the unlimited hot water. He steals a pair of sweatpants to wear to bed. It feels surprisingly . . . ordinary. And after less than a day, I'm used to being back at Yardale. Fuck.

At first I steal all the covers, and then he shoves me over and we fight for a few minutes. I start to giggle madly, like a little girl, and he joins me.

Maybe it's because I don't have to lie to him. There's no playing games, like I do with Gregory. There's no defiance, like with the Angels. There's no scorn and superiority, which is the way I feel for Stan's gang back in South Park (although I admit to being able to stand Stan and especially Kyle). I don't have to persuade him or argue with him like I do with Chase and Maria. It's just Damien and me. Just me and another person for the first time in years.

"Zey want me to take magic lessons tomorrow," I mutter to him after we've turned off the lights and are lying in silence.

He doesn't say anything.

"What should I do?"

Asking for help feels so weird. Something about Damien makes me want to trust him. Maybe it's because I know he wants exactly what I want: escape, and not to be part of this bullshit any longer.

"It would be good for you to learn magic," he says. "You should have let me teach you."

I scrunch up my face at the oddity of the second comment, then realize he's saying it for the microphones.

"I don't want to give zem anozzer way to control me."

"Don't," he says. "Turn it into a way for you to control them."

I roll over close to him until we're pressing against each other. He tenses, but I whisper into his ear.

"'Ow deed you know about . . . me and Gregory?" I hope the cameras can't pick up this part of our conversation.

He snorts. "Oh. From the way he was acting, it was obvious. Jealous bastard if I ever saw one."

I give a frustrated groan. "I do not understand 'im."

"You don't have to," he murmurs back, his voice a breathy sigh I can barely make out. "Just convince him everyone will be happier if we get out of here."

"'Ow? Flirt wizth 'im? Make 'im zink I want to be involved wizth 'im again?" My stomach recoils at the thought.

"No," he says, "that's not exactly how he feels about you. He's just jealous because . . ." He sighs. "I know people. And he's jealous because he used to be your closest friend, and now he thinks the person you're closest to is me, which makes him pissed off, especially since he thought you were as alone and tortured with self-hate as him for the past few years, when you supposedly in a stable relationship, getting married, all that stuff."

"Even zough I'm not."

"Yup, but we can't tell him that because he'll tell the angels. What we have to do is show him that he doesn't have to be full of self-hate anymore. Even though he kind of loathes me now."

"Zat's your fault for pissing 'im off."

"Hey," he growls out. "You're _mine."_

I look up at him, meeting his gaze with my eyebrows raised. "I don't belong to anyone, antichrist." This I say loud enough for the microphones to pick up.

"Yeah," he sighs out. "I know you don't. I'm just a possessive bastard." And then he murmurs, for me and me alone, "I don't think I could ever tame you, anyway. Isn't that what Gregory said? That no one can ever tame you?"

"I'd like to see you try, cocksucker."

I'm silent, thinking for a few more seconds.

"'ow deed you know I call him a British fag?"

He laughs above my head, my face tucked against his shoulder.

"Because that's what I wanted to call him."

We fall asleep bare inches apart.

XXX

Butters knows he has to stop being a pussy, he has to stop crying and be a man and face his punishment, but he can't halt the tears from rolling down his cheeks.

It's all his fault for not telling them what they want to know.

The lady over him holds a remote control in her manicured hands. She's smiling. In just a few short hours, he's grown to hate that smile.

"Just tell me, Leopold Scotch," she says, "and I can let you go."

He shakes his head.

Electricity slices through him. He screams and arches his back. Every cell in his body lights on fire. His world fills with blinding pain.

The electricity fades. He crumples to the ground, face pressing against the cool tiled floor. The stone feels refreshing on his tender skin. His mind settles into a fog. He barely processes her words.

He sees with his remaining left eye, watches her lift up her right foot in front of him, then bring the stiletto down on his left palm. He screams as the pointed heel of her shoe digs into his hand. A bolt of adrenaline slices through him, but someone's boot on his back keeps him pressed to the tiles.

When she pulls her shoe out of his hand, he's full-on sobbing. He curls up into a ball but one of the soldiers kicks him until he unfurls and lies on his stomach, knowing any second she will batter his back with kicks, or slash his flesh with her whip, or send more electricity through him. His left palm throbs, and the pain makes him feel like his whole body's being sucked from the world. It's difficult to focus, and he has to suck on air to drag oxygen into his lungs. His entire body is coated with a sheen of sweat. Wounds slash over his skin; he's clothed in only boxers and the metal collar.

The lady – she introduced herself as "Ms. Grayson," although he doesn't really care about her name at this point – drags him up and lifts him into the air by his neck. He gags, choking, struggling to breath as her fingernails dig into his throat. His hands automatically try to pry away the hand suffocating him, but she ignores his weak protests and stares into his eyes.

"Tell me, 'Butters,'" she says softly. "Who are the other High Hellspawn in South Park?"

He tries to speak, can't. She drops him to the floor, and he lands in a mess of limbs. He straightens himself out and she crouches down next to him. "Well?"

"Th-th-there's no one else-"

"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "We determined a huge amount of satanic energy in the town. The only reason we couldn't track them down was because your entire town is Hell-Allied, and all you hellspawn rotting together tends to cover each other up." She smirks. "Tell us who they are and we won't go back and kill everyone. One. By. One. Starting with your parents."

"You wouldn't," Butters gasps out. "Y-y-you're the angels, you're supposed to be the good guys-"

"Your town is full of Hell-Allied freaks," she snaps out, her face transformed into a mask of hatred. "Filthy, disgusting animals. They've turned their backs on God. We're going to fucking kill them anyway. We're going to kill all of you anyway, and if you don't cooperate, you little cunt, we're going to make sure it's as painful as possible.

She jerks her hands forward and digs her finger into his remaining left eye. He shrieks as he feels her nails digging around in his socket. He struggles, his shoulders twisting, but his body is held down and all he can do is scream and scream and scream.

He keeps screaming long after she twists out chunks of pulpy pupil, long after his sight has gone completely and all he knows is darkness and the pain, oh, _the pain._

"Pathetic," he hears her say over the sound of his screams.

He feels her fingernails stroke his cheek, and he shudders, trying to pull away. His voice has gone raspy and all he can do is whimper and wish for it to be over.

"Butters?" she says gently.

"I wanna go h-h-home."

"I know you do, Butters."

"I wanna see my m-mommy and my dadddddyy."

"What do you have to do to be with them again?" she asks gently.

He coughs up blood. The soldiers holding him down relinquish their hold, and he struggles to his knees, wraps his bloody arms around her legs. He hears her mutter in disgust, but he needs someone, anyone right now.

He tells her their names. He tells her about Kyle and Stan and Kenny and Cartman, and he even tells her about how Christophe came to them injured and how Pip is one of the High Heavenfilth apparently.

He gives their addresses and phone numbers.

When he's done, the Grayson lady pats him on the head and disentangles herself from him.

"Put him back in his cell," she says.

He feels arms hoisting him up. Someone throws him over their shoulder, which makes blood start to leak from his eyes again. The numb haze of pain has now become second nature to him.

"Can you heal me?" he whispers to nowhere.

"Of course not," she says.

He wasn't expecting it.

"You won't hurt them, will you?" he stammers out.

She strokes his cheek again, and then he feels himself moving as the soldier holding him carries him away.

"Of course not, Butters," she calls after him in her gentlest voice, and even though he wants to believe her and buy her bullshit, he knows everything she's promised him is a lie.

XXX

The coffee shop is barren at this time of night, only the most loyal customers braving the stained wooden tables and the fluorescent lights flickering above their heads. It's the most demented, depressing mom-and-pop store Stan has ever seen. It's approximately perfect for Tweek Tweak.

Tweek flips out when he sees them shove their way through the double doors that are supposed to add to the atmosphere, or something.

"Oh, Jesus! Why are you guys here? What happened? Who died? My parents? Oh my god, they're going to send me to foster care and the gnomes will get me and-"

"Someone shut the spaz up," Cartman mutters under his breath. He gets his wish, in a way, when Craig leans across the counter and slaps his hand over Tweek's mouth. Tweek's silent for a moment, and then Craig gives a groan of disgust and pulls his hand away. Tweek must have licked him.

Tweek doesn't start his rant up again, merely inspects Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman as they sit down at the counter.

"Can I get you something?" Tweek says after a long pause, rather sullenly.

Kenny asks for an espresso, begging Kyle to pay with a bat of his eyelashes. Kyle rolls his eyes but nods in agreement.

Stan raps his fingers against the wooden counter while Tweek mixes the syrups. He plunks the espresso in front of Kenny when he's finished, then regards the quartet with unconcealed distrust. It's Craig, however, who gives them the full brunt of his loathing, directed through lidded dark eyes and gritted teeth.

"What are you assholes doing here?" Craig demands after the standoff.

Kenny slurps his espresso happily. Stan clears his throat.

"Maybe we just wanted coffee," he says.

He snorts, then flips them all off with a quick jab of his middle finger. "So you drive all the way to North Park for an espresso for a kid who can't even pay for it? Sure, guys, sure."

"Why the hell are you here?" Stan snaps back.

"The guys are seeing a movie after Tweek's done with his shift in half an hour."

For the first time, Stan spots Token, Jimmy, and Clyde in the corner of the shop, munching on cookies.

"We actually happen to be friends with Tweek. But you douchebags just want something from him."

"Don't have to protect Tweek like he's made of glass, dude," Kyle says.

"I don't mind!" Tweek squeaks out and backs away. "Just tell me what you want. No! Ah! Don't! It's too much pressure, way too much pressure, man!"

Craig raises his eyebrows. "See? Get the fuck out of here."

"'Ay! We're customers, asshole!" Cartman jerks his head at Kenny, who's only half-finished with his coffee.

"That'll be one fifty," Tweek snaps in retaliation.

"We don't want trouble. God forbid we get into more trouble after those zombies last week," Stan interrupts. "Tweek, we just want your help on one little thing, and then we'll leave you alone."

"Wow, I was right and you assholes were lying. Who would have fucking guessed?" Craig downs the rest of his own mug of coffee. "You going to be able to deal with them?"

Tweek nods, his gaze level on the quartet.

"Don't let them harass you. I'm going to sit with the guys. I can't stand these fuckers any longer." He stalks over to sit with the rest of his friends.

"So, what do you want?" Tweak asks, then visibly cringes.

"We were wondering if you know anything about this specific – government conspiracy," Kyle says, obviously without putting any thought into it. The rest of them wince while they wait for the outburst.

"GOVERNMENT CONSPIRACIES?" His voice shrieks up and down an octave in less than a breath. "Oh, god, the CIA is coming to get me, I knew it! They've found out I know their secrets, now they're going to make me regret ever setting up those microphones OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD." He starts to rip at his hair.

Kenny grabs his wrist to settle him, still guzzling his coffee. Tweek locks gazes with him, then sucks in a deep breath and nods. In the past few years, he's obtained the ability to calm himself down. Sort of.

"Not the CIA," Stan says. "We only think they're a government conspiracy because Kyle can't find any info on them, and you know how good of a hacker he is."

Tweek nods, processing the information.

"They were the guys who kidnapped Butters last week after they tore up and burned down the school remember? On the same day as the zombies?"

Tweek's eyes widen. "Oh, those guys!"

"What do you know about them?"

"They're the Yardale guys."

_Yardale_. The word sends a shiver through Stan's spine. And suddenly, he connects the word to a war from nine years ago. "Yardale School, you mean? Dude, what do you know about the Yardale School?"

Tweek twitches. "One sec, let me get my binders."

He grabs his car keys from the hook and heads out the door, still wearing his gray uniform shirt and apron. While he's gone, Craig sends them _I'm going to fucking murder you _glares.

He returns, lugging a stack of ten binders, huffing under the weight. Stan takes part of the stack from him and sets on the counter. He opens the first one. It has a crude sketch of what appears to be a garden gnome.

"My therapist told me to do this," Tweek explains. "Said it would help me organize my thoughts. I don't know if it works." He twitches again, and shuffles through the binders until he pulls out a black one.

"Look," he urges. The quartet huddles around him as he opens it up.

Inside are news reports, images, coronary notes. Lots and lots of stuff about dead people, people incinerating in fire, burned to crisp.

"Um," Kyle says. "This is nice, dude, but what does it have to do with this Yardale School place?"

"Everything!" Tweek screeches out. He flips through the binder and points to a page describing a group of people burnt in a fire in Kenya. Another about arson ending the lives of forty unfortunate schoolchildren in England. "It's the Hellspawn, dude, the hellspawn are doing it and they're going to get us next!"

They all exchange glances, except Kenny, who's just finished up the last of his espresso and is licking his lips and looking at Kyle hopefully for more.

"The war's coming up, the final war! It'll happen any month now, and then our lives will go up in poof, smoke, flame, because it'll all change and GAH!" He shudders. "And the Yardale school, they're on heaven's side, they're working for heaven, but they're not the good guys, either, dude! I'm heard whispers, mutters, rumors . . ." He leans in close enough for Stan to taste the reek of old coffee and recognize the flavor of Monster on him.

"They're angels," he breathes out, "and from the stories I pieced together, Butters was with the demons, and that's why they dragged away. Because they're not the good guys, no matter how much we want them to be. In this war between Heaven and Hell, there aren't any good or bad guys, there are just people who desperately want to win."

They're silent for a moment.

Cartman indicates _crazy _with the twirl of fingers. "Come on guys, let's get out of here."

"Fine," Tweek snaps, "Don't believe me. Just wait until they come for you next. Because they will. Both sides of this war will come for you."

They stare at him.

"Paranoid much?" Cartman manages.

And that's when they're invaded.

XXX

**Yayynness, another chapter finished. The next one should be up soon since I already finished writing it. It'll be an all little!Christophe chapter. **

**Which timeline is more interesting, Little!Christophe timeline or Big!Christophe timeline? **


	13. Chapter 13

Christophe runs without direction, his ratted sneakers skidding over the slippery-wet-from-rain sidewalk. His face burns, but he's not crying, because he's too strong to cry and he doesn't care what Gregory does, anyways.

After a while he acknowledges the gnawing monster in his stomach. He goes through the motions, remembering the tricks of dumpster-diving from his years in poverty back at home. He digs through a McDonalds and comes up with a few stale hamburgers. He eats hunched over in a doorway to an unopened office building, and when he's done he stays curled up in the doorway for half an hour, trying to avoid the rain. His brief shelter ends when the building opens for business and he's kicked out into the streets again.

He's still bloody from his fight with the mutts, back when he lost Maria and Chase, back when Gregory turned into this fear-trapped thing instead of the strong leader he's been the past five months.

Or maybe the leader thing was a masquerade, and all along he's been a weakling who just wants people to believe in him because he can't believe himself.

Christophe figures this out as he wraps up his bandaged injured wrist, and makes himself promise to shout these words at Gregory the next time he sees him.

Which won't be a while.

Not until after Christophe has rescued Maria and Chase.

On his own. Because he doesn't need Gregory's help.

First he needs a plan.

He hides in the back corner of one of the public libraries and tries to think of one.

Goddamn it, Gregory is_ so _damn good at these. But Christophe doesn't need him, he's fine on his own.

He can . . . go to the police! And tell them everything!

No, that won't work. The Yardale School has people with the police. He remembers eaves-dropped-upon conversations back at the school; the way they bribed officers into overlooking the torture cellars in the basement.

Tell someone rich with a lot of guns.

No, that won't work either, they won't believe him.

He lurks amongst the books, hoping one of them will help them. They don't. He can't read in English. The Yardale School teachers have been trying to teach him, but he's been less than compliant. He can barely even read in French.

He could take a car and-

No, he can't drive.

He could find some bombs-

Where?

"What ze fuck should I do?" he mutters to no one.

"We have to be sneaky."

He whirls. Gregory stands behind him, clothes soaking wet from the rain. He doesn't meet Christophe's gaze.

"You followed me."

He nods.

Christophe gives him his prepared speech, with a lot more four-letter words than he originally intended. Gregory takes it without arguing. Finally, he says, "I have an idea."

Christophe blinks. "For 'ow to get Chase and Maria back?"

"Yes."

"You said eet was too dangerous."

"It is."

They both stare at each other.

"But," Gregory says, and gives a tentative smile, "I figure we're fucked either way, so we may as well go down fighting."

XXX

Thievery, in the end, is the best solution.

"I watched this house while you were moping in the library," Gregory says as they huddle behind the bushes. "A man and a woman already left for work, in separate cars. No sitter showed up, and there are no signs of older kids. I haven't heard anything. It should be empty."

"'Ow do you know zey deedn't come back while you were gone?" Christophe demands.

Gregory jerks his head to the door. "I left that stick resting against it before I left. It's still there."

They creep around the giant blue house, eyeing the stone pillars. The lawn is still dead from winter, but the sprinklers turn on right as they walk past them, spraying them with water. They duck against the side of the house, their hearts beating rapidly.

"They must be on a timer," Gregory says, and they press on.

They're shivering by the time they find the back door. Gregory picks the lock with three paperclips, and Christophe wonders briefly how he knows how to do that. They never learned anything like that back at Yardale. It's probably from the time before they were taken to Yardale, the time he can barely remember. He wonders how much Gregory remembers of his past.

Inside the house they come across a kitchen half the size of Christophe's old house. He steals a cookie from the pantry before they continue to prowl along the corridors. The house is the perfect size; large enough to contain when they need, small enough the family won't hire servants.

"What if zey don't 'ave zem?" Christophe whispers.

"Every rich family has at least one gun," Gregory whispers back grimly. "Trust me, I know from experie-"

"What are you guys doing here?"

They freeze on the steps and turn. At the bottom of the stairs is a young boy, maybe seven or eight, with spiky dark hair and a bruised, blackened eye. He eyes the two intruders with curiosity and no fear.

"We were 'ungry-" Christophe starts.

"Save it, dude. You came in from the kitchen and only took one cookie. I'm not stupid."

"You've been following us?" Gregory asks.

The boy doesn't bat an eye. "What can I say, you're loud."

Christophe wants to bristle and shout back that they're not, but Gregory stills him with a hand on his shoulder.

"You are just paranoid," he tells the boy instead.

"With good reason, obviously. And I don't care why you're here."

They wait.

"Are you going to call the police?" Gregory asks.

The boy laughs.

XXX

His name is Jordan Hendrickson. He situates the two of them in his bedroom, then circles them as he talks. Christophe bumps shoulders with Gregory, reassuring him, but Gregory gives him his _I'm not afraid _look.

"You two are going to help me," Jordan says after a few minutes of thinking on his part, "and I won't go to the police."

"We could be out of 'ere in zirty seconds or less, and zen we would disappear and no one would ever see us again," Christophe challenges back. "Stop bullshitting."

"Why are you still here, then?" Jordan growls right back. When Christophe doesn't say anything, he continues on. "Yeah, it's because you want something. Tell me what it is and I'll get it for you."

"So you're trying to convince us using the carrot and stick technique," Gregory says.

"Stop analyzing me!" Jordan yanks at strands of his dark hair. "Okay, okay, I want your help, and I'll give you what you want if you'll help me!"

"Guns," Christophe says, and Gregory gives him another look. This one is his _way-to-give-away-our-objective _glower. Christophe shrugs guiltily.

"Guns? Sure? My dad's got tons stashed away. Bullets, too." Jordan gulps down air. "I'll tell the police if you don't help me."

Gregory raises his eyebrows.

"Okay, fine!" He drops all pretense of controlling the situation. "Just, please, help me out, you guys!"

"Tell us what you want first," Gregory reminds him.

Jordan nods, his hair flipping into his eyes. He sits down on the bed as far away from the two of them as he can, grabs a huge teddy bear, and hugs it against his chest.

"It's my mom," he says.

Christophe and Gregory exchange glances.

"She . . . she's a good mom, she really is. But sometimes when she's had too much to drink-" His voice cracks. "My older sister tries to protect me, but sometimes she can't, and it kills her when she sees –" He points to his blackened eyes and shakes his head.

"What about your fazzer?" Christophe asks.

Jordan grits his teeth. "Sometimes she hits him, too. Once she smashed her bottle over his back. But he doesn't do anything because he's too afraid to admit to the guys he's letting a girl hit him. So whenever she comes home fucked up, he leaves the house as fast as possible and tells Erin to look after me. Fucking douchebag!" He buries his face in his pillow and lets out a shriek.

Christophe and Gregory exchange glances again.

Jordan looks up. "Sorry," he mutters. "I said a bad word. Three times."

"You did?" Christophe asks.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter." He sucks in air, then gives them a tentative smile. "I've never told anyone this before."

"What do you want us to do?" Christophe asks. "Kill her?"

"What? Oh, god, no!" Jordan stares at him with wide eyes.

"Zen why didn't you just tell ze police?"

"Because we have!" he practically yells. "Erin called the cops after she knocked me into a coma, and they came and arrested _dad_! Just because he's a guy and we're being hit around by our _mom_! God, all the adults in this world are fucking crazy!" He buries his face back in his pillow.

"I want them to believe me," he mutters around the fabric. "I want proof my mom did it and not my dad. When they dragged my dad away for spousal abuse – the _one fucking time_ he hit her back! – he was in jail for two years. I can barely even remember it, but Erin was thirteen back then, and she said mom turned into hell. I don't want to go back to that. I don't ever want to see my sister cry again."

He sniffles into the pillow.

Christophe rolls his eyes. Kids in the real world are such wimps. If you're knocked around, then you just hit them back until they stop.

He remembers Emma and realizes his logic has flaws.

Sometimes, the people who hurt you just laugh when you try to fight them.

"All right," he says cautiously, "any ideas?"

"I have this video camera," Jordan mutters. "I tried to get my sister to help me but she refused because my plan sort of involves me getting the crud beaten out of me."

"Ah," Christophe says. "You want us to film your mozzere beating you. All right."

Gregory raises his eyebrows, as if to say _you're okay with this_? Christophe shrugs. Gregory shrugs back.

"It's Saturday. She always gets super wasted Saturday night. I'll make sure not to clean the counters or something so when she comes back she'll get really ticked off." He leans back against the wall next to his bed. "Only problems is Erin told me to forget about this plan. She'll freak out if she knows I want to go through with it." He hesitates. "I can trust you guys not to freak out, right? I mean, from how admittedly quiet you were being when you were sneaking through the house you know what you're doing when it comes to criminal aspect of things-"

Christophe snorts. "I 'ave done worse zings to people zan what we will see tonight. It will be fine."

"So you'll help me?"

"If you'll give us guns."

"'Tophe, can I speak with you for a few seconds?" Gregory taps his shoulder.

Christophe winces. He doesn't know what he's done now, but this is Gregory's polite-because-the-rage-is-building-up-inside-of-him voice. He follows him out into the hallway, shutting the door to Jordan's bedroom behind him.

"I thought we were going to save Chase and Maria."

"We are."

"Then why are we wasting time around here?"

"We're 'elping Jordan."

"He doesn't need our help. Chase and Maria need our help. I thought that was why you were so anxious early, because you wanted to help them."

Christophe stares at him.

"You really don't care about anyone ozzere zan yourself, do you?"

Gregory doesn't respond for a few seconds. "I thought I made it amply clear back at the Yardale School that you three are the most important things in the world to me."

Christophe blinks.

"Even though I'm too scared sometimes to do anything," Gregory says, "that's the truth."

"Er . . . ah . . .well zen. We are not ze only four people in ze world. Zis little boy needs our 'elp, too, and 'e will give us weapons and shelter from ze Yardale School – would zey ever zink of looking for us 'ere? – and he might even teach us 'ow to use our guns. Plus," he leans forward, hissing into Gregory's ear. "Before Maria and Chase were captured, you were talking about finding a family."

Gregory hesitates, then nods. "Oh."

"We agree? We will 'elp 'im? Eet will just take one day."

He nods again, then says, "since when do you lead us?"

Christophe stares at him for a few seconds, then chuckles. "You seriously aren't angry about me telling you what to do, are you?"

"No," Gregory says, but he's sulking.

"You might lead us as a group,_ mon chéri._ but when eet's ze two of us I'm ze leader." And he stands up on his tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek, which makes Gregory flush bright red all over.

"Who are you guys?"

They both turn at the high-pitched female voice from down the hallway. A seventeen-year-old girl in boxer shorts and an oversized t-shirt blearily rubs her eyes and blinks at them. Her long hair is tousled and knotted. Scratches, probably from fingernails, run over her cheek, and her bare forearms look like they've been whacked with a heavy object from the bruises staining her skin.

"Oh. We're – ah – friends of Jordan's-"

"They're my friends, sissy." Jordan pokes his head out of his bedroom.

"Okay. I won't ask why they're covered in blood and kissing, then." She starts up the steps, taking them two at a time.

Jordan glowers at them. "You interrupted our conversation to go make out?"

"We were not making out," Christophe snaps back.

"You were too. My sister said so."

"You're sister's a stupid cun-"

"Stop it, both of you," Gregory cuts in. "Jordan, we'll help you. What do you want us to do?"

XXX

They huddle behind the large potted plant. Gregory holds the video camera, since Christophe's right hand is still bandaged and broken. Erin went to bed an hour ago, at about ten o clock. The two children cleaned the entire house. Jordan lied and told his sister he was going to bed right after her.

"It's best to be asleep and hidden in our rooms when she gets home," he confessed to Christophe and Gregory. "She tends to forget you're alive then."

Now he's curled up on the couch in front of the front door, reading decrepit Spiderman comics, after purposefully tracking mud in through the door.

"She flips out if you leave anything dirty," he said while he was muddying up the living room. "It's just one of her things. A mom thing."

"Right," Christophe said, because he can't remember his mother.

The front door opens. Jordan visibly stiffens in front of them, although he keeps his gaze on his comics. Christophe hisses for Gregory to turn the camera on. They have a clear shot of the living room.

"J-J!" A very drunk, very thin woman stumbles into the room, swaying slightly. She carries a bottle on her right hand. "J-J, give mommy a hug."

Jordan ignores her.

"You haven't seen me all day!" She stumbles over to him and opens her arms expectantly. Reluctantly, he dumps his comics on the floor and stands up to hug her.

She pats him on the back with a great deal of affection, hard enough to leave bruises. He winces and after a too-long hug, she lets him go.

"How was your day?" she asks. "Mommy had a g-g-great night out."

"Fine, mom," Jordan whispers.

She looks around the living room. Her expression darkens at the mud-streaked carpet.

"What the fuck have you been doing?" she asks very clearly.

"Nothing. It's fine, mom."

"Don't fucking say fine to me!" she shrieks, voice high-pitched enough to make Christophe wince. "This place is a wreck! A fucking wreck! What have you been doing all day, fucking your whore of a sister?"

Without warning, she brings her beer bottle up and smashes it down on his head. Jordan drops back, screaming as glass shatters around him. Blood starts to dribble in gooey clumps around his head, staining his dark hair. He lands against the couch, head smacking against the armrest. He moans and touches his fingers to his head.

"Don't complain!" she screams and kicks him in the ribs. He doubles over, coughing in pain.

"Mom?" Erin pokes her head into the living room. Her eyes widen when she sees the scene. "Oh, god, mom, calm down, it's fine, it's fine-"

"Calm down?" their mother shrieks. She picks up a chair, raising it above her head. "How the fuck am I supposed to calm down when this place is a f-f-fucking wreck!"

She starts for her daughter, and Christophe's mentally begging Erin to run away, but she doesn't. She doesn't, because she doesn't want to leave her brother to her mother. She just cringes, arms over head in acceptance.

And suddenly, Christophe can't take it anymore. He lunges out from their hiding place behind the plant and lunges into the mother, his momentum knocking her over. She lands flat on her back, and disoriented from surprise and the drink, can't do anything but just lie there while he raises his fist and brings it into her face, cracking her nose.

XXX

Later that night, after they've anonymously given the tape to the police a duct-taped Mrs. Hendrickson and the tape proving what she did (Christophe's cameo edited out, of course) they cart Jordan off to the hospital. Erin was nice enough to uphold Jordan's part of their deal, even though she didn't know about it previously. She gives them each semi-automatic from her father's gun collection, Christophe receiving a Glock 17 and Gregory a Walther P38. They both use 9X19 Parabellum cartridges, which she teaches them how to load into the gun. She gives them a few clips, and says, "Thank you, I think."

Then she smiles tentatively, and it's time for them to leave.

"I hope zey will be all right," Christophe says as they wait at the bus station. There's a bus that stops only two miles away from the Yardale School (Gregory figured it out with a map). They're running back to the hell they came from with no plan, no routes of escape, nothing backing them up.

Christophe images Gregory must be about ready to burst into tears.

"Who? Maria and Chase?" Gregory asks.

Christophe gives him a murderous look. "We do not 'ave to '_ope_ about zem being all right. We will _make sure_ zey are all right. But I was talking about Erin and Jordan."

"Oh." Gregory shrugs. "I'm sure they'll be fine."

"I 'ope zeir fazzere becomes more responsible."

"I doubt it," Gregory says, "but there's nothing we can do."

They're quiet for a moment, shivering in then night air. It's a little after three in the morning. Christophe's fingers are still bloody from punching Mrs. Hendrickson until he had to be dragged off. He hit her with his broken hand as well, and now it throbs.

After a while, Gregory says, "You're a hero."

A homeless man staggers past them, hyped up on LSD and shouting for someone to please, someone please get the spiders off him. Christophe watches him go, shivering.

"What?"

"You're a hero," Gregory says, "and I'm not."

Christophe snorts. "Oh, _s'il vous plait_. You're being retarded. I am ze farthest zing from a 'ero in ze world."

"You're not," he says fiercely. "You saved Erin from being hurt. You convinced me to keep trying to save Maria and Chase, even though all I want to do is run as fast as I can as far away from here as I can. You thought fast on your feet and found the rope back at Yardale School on the night of our escape. You're always the one who delivers the final blow to the demons they made us practice killing on."

Christophe closes his eyes and remembers Emma. "I 'ave done some very un-'eoric zings," he says.

"But you still care," he says fiercely, with emotion in his voice Christophe has never heard before. "You don't want to admit it, but bloody hell, you care about people more than anyone else I know. You're the strongest person I know, Christophe, and all I can do is plot and plan and manipulate people into doing my dirty work and hope things turn out okay. Because I am afraid. I am so afraid it hurts."

This time of night, in this part of time, there's no one on the streets but the drug dealers and the homeless. The silence is aching.

Christophe won't understand for ten years how hard it is to admit you're afraid. But he does see panic in Gregory's eyes.

He slips his uninjured left hand into Gregory's grip.

"Whatever I am now," he says, just as fiercely, "eet ees all because of you. And you might 'ate yourself now, but you 'ave saved me before. Remember the first time zey were 'testing' us out? When zose fucking pedophiles tried to 'urt me? You saved me zen. Maria, Chase, and you saved me."

"They got to us later, anyways." His face is pinched white, contrasting with the darkness of the night around them. "And I couldn't have done it without their help, because if I don't have you three around me I feel like I can't breath, I'm so terrified. At least-" and he gives a slight smile. "At least when you're there I can try and not be afraid."

"Zat's how we _all_ feel. We are weak wizout each other. And everyzing I am now, Gregory – I am nozing wizout you."

He squeezes Gregory's hand.

The bus screeches to a stop in front of them.

They board, know they have no plan, knowing they have no plan, no routes of escape, nothing backing them up. Gregory does start crying as the bus pulls away, and the tears clog in Christophe's throat, and he refuses to let himself break down. He has to be strong now.

XXX

I've wanted to write this chapter (Christophe's first mission as a mercenary) for sooo long. It's initially what got me started writing this story. Fun fact: Jordan's the character most like me! (Personality-wise). And situation-wise, a little bit. I don't have a physically abusive mom, but I do have an alcoholic father who's shoved me around a couple times. Thankfully, my brothers and I don't live with him. So, it looks like Jordan's a self-insert. Goddamn it.

I edited this chapter after I posted it because I realized there was a typo like every other paragraph. Thank you for reading. This A/N is getting way too long. Please review!


	14. Chapter 14

In movies they always sit cross-legged, but I learned when I was seven it actually doesn't matter and you can sit however you want. I end up sprawled out on my back, staring up at the blue sky above me and wishing for this all to be over.

Ever hour I spend here makes it easier and easier for me to just slip back into the routine of Yardale. And once I do that, I'm trapped.

For now I'm just paranoid.

"Breath in," my new teacher says. "Breath out."

My old official teacher was named Francis Kingston. Apparently, she's been killed in battle since then. All I can remember about her is that she shoved in the Fridge, forced me to drink the purple liquid that was god's fucking soul, and physically, emotionally and sexually abused me for eight months. I'm not too upset about her death.

Then new teacher is an angel (Kingston was a low Heavenfilth . . . so, upgrade for me?) who was named Michael Stone before he died. He tells me to call him Mr. Stone. I call him Mike. While he tells me the 'breathe in, breathe out,' routine, I wonder how far his blood would spurt if I jammed my shovel into his neck. It's hard to kill angels since they've already been killed once, but if you do it right you send their eternal souls into oblivion.

Next to me, Damien starts to pant loudly. "Oh, Christophe," he moans out. "Breath in-" His voice hitches. "Oh, god, Christophe – breeeaaathh – oh, I'm gonna –" He sucks in air seductively.

We both crack up. I sit up and give him a high-five. Mike scowls at us. He's not loving Purple's rule about Damien following me wherever I go.

We're in the practice arena Maria and I fought at yesterday. The other two are here for their 'magic lessons' as well, although they're off in the corner learning a complicated procedure that, as far as I can tell from this far away, is teaching them how to turn other people into lumps of molten lead.

"If you can't be quiet," Mike growls out (his voice has a raspy, hoarse tone that annoys the shit out of me), "I'll stitch your lips together so you have to shut up."

Damien immediately stops laughing, as he's been well-convinced the Yardale School always carries out their threats. I, on the other hand, learned this lesson so many times over I've stopped caring. Also, I don't know when to close my mouth.

"Fuck you, beetch," I say. "'Is stupid sex-sounds are more interesting zan your damn 'breaz in . . . breaz out . . .'"

"My sex sounds are not stupid!" Damien protests.

"Yes, zey are! I can do better sex sounds and I'm fucking asexual!"

"Prove it!"

Mike tries to interrupt us, but Damien and I already glaring each other down. For the next three minutes we hold our competition; he admits defeat when I imitate a screaming orgasm that makes us laugh until we can't breathe. Mike gives up and waits for us to calm down.

"You know," Damien leans over to me and whispers into my year, "I can get far better screams than that out of you tonight-"

I remember we have a theoretical marriage to uphold. So instead of punching him in the face, which is my first instinct, I whisper back, "I'd like to see you try, cocksucker," and punch him in the shoulder.

Mike finally manages to grab our attention again by snapping his fingers in front of us repeatedly. I change my mind: the Yardale School might always make good on its threats, but Mike is too much of a pussy to follow through with his on an individual level.

Damien snorts at him and sits back. We continue our exhilarating lesson.

"Breath deep," he says.

"Fuck you."

He sighs and ignores me. "First I'm going to try to help you learn how to summon your magic at will. From what I've heard of your use of your powers, they're limited to being occasionally being able to dig extremely fast, and not always on command."

I don't respond.

He glowers at me, expecting confirmation.

I just raise my eyebrows.

Huffing, he continues. "Now would be a good time to close your eyes. Are you in a comfortable position?"

"_Oui_."

"Good. Now, I want you to image your magic is a rope inside of you. Mentally try to grab for the rope. Imagine the sensations of grabbing onto a rope."

With my eyes closed, it's dark. That's a stupid thing to think, but I never really noticed how dark it is with my eyes closed because I've never truly . . . looked inside myself before. It's an unsettling experience. I try to mentally reach out for a rope, but it's a lot harder than it seems. My physical hands move automatically, and I let out a growl of frustration and drop them back to the grass.

"It'll be easier if you don't physically move," Mike adds helpfully.

"Shut it," I snap to him, and continue to try to mentally reach out. I know I resigned myself to not learning anything at all, but now I want to figure this out. A rope. A rope. To grab a rope, I need hands. I mentally fashion myself a pair of hands. They look much like mine in real life. Scarred, naturally brown from my mysterious race, tanned dark, strong, thin fingers. I stretch my mental hands out, and to my joy, my real-life hands don't move.

My physical body feels disconnected. Every real-world sensation is hidden by a layer of . . . something. But in my mind, half-thoughts and emotions multiply until they swamp over me, and I open my eyes and lurch up, gasping.

"You okay?" Damien's hands hover over me. I shrug him away and hunch over, choking down air. Mike looks unimpressed.

"What ze fuck 'appened?" I snarl at him.

"You separated yourself too much from your real-life body. You forgot to breath."

"Zis . . . is fucking insane . . ." I cough twice, then manage to sit straight up. "I am not doing zis anymore."

"The other three took four or five years to be able to cast their first spell," Mike says. "You shouldn't be worried if it takes you a while."

"No fucking way!" I snarl. "I'm not going to spend five years learning zis! I refuse to spend one day learning zis sheet!" I stand up and wobble. Damien grabs my arm to steady me but I shove him off again.

I stalk towards the door of the practice arena, still seething from my failure. Maria and Chase watch me but I ignore their eyes.

At the door to the chain-fence is Gregory. His fingers tangle with the chains as he presses himself against the fence, watching me. The guards around him stare at me. Everyone's eyes are on me.

And then Damien steps in front of me. "What the fuck do you want, British fag?" he growls at Gregory.

"I do not need your 'elp." I shove him out of my way.

He rests his gaze on me. His eyes narrow and his teeth grit. "You keep doing that," he says. "Pushing me away."

"Maybe because you keep trying to get in my way."

"Maybe because I want to look out for you." His volume increases.

"Maybe I do not need you to look out for me." My own voice rises. My fists clench. And I realize I do not want to argue right in front of Gregory. I don't want to give him any sign of weakness.

"Forget eet," I say.

"Then stop bitching!"

"Damien," I say. "Cut. Eet. Out."

I meet his gaze and he locks eyes with me. He breathes through his nose and nods, even though I can sense he's still pissed off.

"What ze fuck do you want, British fag?" I repeat, but I say it in a measured tone, adding a bit of smirk to my expression.

He's watched our entire scene with far too much amusement. Now he pulls away from the chain link fence, opens the door wide, and says:

"The angels have given us a mission. For me, it's a generic one. It might hold more relevance to you."

"Why?"

"Because it'll be your first real experience in this war." He lets his stare travel over Damien.

Damien seethes back and opens his mouth, but I grab his wrist and clench it to make him shut up. I can bitch Gregory out all on my own.

"I refuse."

"That's not one of your options."

"Refusing to chose ees always one of ze options." I don't care that it's the cowardly choice. "Damien, let's go back to ze school or somezing."

Gregory blocks my path before I can stomp out of the arena.

"You know what will happen if you disobey," he says.

"Zey'll do what? Torture me again? After you've been tortured a 'undred times, eet looses ze mystique." Still sucks like a bitch, but I'm not backing down, not now, not until I have to.

"No. They'll hurt Maria and Chase." He leans forward until his face is a foot from mine. "Maria must have told me you what they threatened me with. Esalen-"

"Esalen?"

"The Purple-Eyed angel."

I like my stupid nicknamed better.

"Esalen says the same applies to you. Please, Christophe, I've worked so hard to keep them from being harmed. We're the strong ones. We always were."

"Fuck you, Gregory," I growl out. "I left, you understand, _oui?_ I left all you beetches behind ten years ago. You cannot drag me down anymore."

My ragged fingernails dig into the flesh of Damien's wrist. He doesn't make a sound, although he winces as I break skin.

"What about him?" he says softly, looking at Damien without seeing him. Even though his focus is on Damien, his words aim at me. "Esalen will not hesitate to do whatever it takes to achieve your cooperation."

"Zis asshole can take of 'imself." I pull him closer to me as I speak anyway, a subconscious protective movement. "'E keeps trying to take care of me. And 'e's ze antichrist. What can you really do to 'im?"

Gregory looks at me oddly. I realize this probably wasn't the best thing to say if I want to keep the marriage shit going so they won't impede our escape plans. I also realize I'm supposed to be charming Gregory right now. Ah, fuck.

"Let's go."

I drag Damien through the door, shoving Gregory out of my way. He steps back. His expression – eyes lidded, mouth flat, eyebrows raised – reveals nothing.

Then the soldiers gather around us.

There are about a dozen of them. I lift my free fist up in front of me and Damien bares his teeth, turning from smirking humanoid to a monster in human guise. His red eyes focus on them. Our fingers stay twined behind us as we circle, back-to-back.

Then one of the soldiers hits me over the head with the butt of his gun, knocking me out and cutting short what I'm sure would have been an epic battle.

xxx

I wake up, and it's freezing, and I know exactly where I am.

My weight has sunk me into the snow. I sit up, spitting out a flake that falls into my mouth. The white, fake powder drifts from the skin. My bare arms are covered in goose bumps. I wriggle my toes experimentally and they poke out of their fine cover of snow. I suspect I'll have to cut them off due to frostbite yet again (fortunately, the angels always heal them after I'm let out).

Then I realize I'm still holding onto Damien's hand.

He stirs next to me, pushing himself up, blinking his eyes. They've faded back down to dark burgundy-black again. The surprise on his face is almost comical.

"Where the fuck are we?" he mutters.

"Ze Fridge," I say. Why is Damien here with me? They never stick two of us in this hellhole at one time. Except-

"CHRISTOPHE SIMON."

I recognize Grayson's smooth, melodic voice. I leap to my feet, my heart rate jackhammering up, and yank Damien up with me.

Her voice blares through the intercoms. I hear her smirk. It makes my stomach churn in disgust.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asks.

"YOUR REFUSAL TO ACCEPT YOUR MISSION AND ELIMINATE THE DEMONS TERRORIZING OUR SOLDIERS HAS LEAD US TO DRASTIC MEASURES."

Panic starts to seep through me, every inch of me taken hold. My breath stops.

"TODAY, WE ONLY WANT YOU TO KILL ONE DEMON. YOU GET TO CHOOSE WHICH ONE, CHRISTOPHE."

She laughs. The fucking bitch. She _laughs._

"WE WILL NOT LET YOU OUT UNTIL YOU MAKE THAT CHOICE."

I let out a moan.

She chuckles again. "HAVE FUN."

The intercom clicks off.

xxx

"Christophe. Christophe, what the fuck is she talking about?"

I lean against him, pressing my head against his chest.

His next breath is sharp. "What . . . are you okay? Did they hit you harder than I thought? I didn't get to check you out before they shocked me into unconsciousness-"

I bury myself into his clothes, trying to get as close as possible, to share body heat, to stave off what I know is going to happen.

He shuts up. I breathe in his scent for a few more seconds. He smells like a Hellspawn; all coppery and rather sour. It's not the best smell in the whole world. But it's Damien's smell. That's how you know when you really know a person; when you can pick them out just by their scent.

Then I shove him away. His gaze locks with mine. And I flip out.

I turn to the metal wall a few feet from us and run over it. It's the wall of the Fridge, the wall of the arena, the wall trapping us in here, trapping us in this hellhole with the snow and the mechanical demons and the rigged traps oh god oh god oh god I'm here with another person I know what they want me to do I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't

_can'tcan'tcan'tcan'tcan't_

And I'm punching the wall, kicking it, screaming at the top of my lungs. I drag my nails down the wall until my fingers are crimson-stained. Damien tries to pull me back but I shove him away and continue hitting the wall, breaking bone, smashing my fingers and breaking my feet, and it's not enough, because it'll never break down, it'll never break, we're trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped

__

The voice filtering through the speakers is the only thing that can grab my attention. I stop my assault. The pain doesn't even register in my consciousness. All I can feel is panic. Adrenaline makes everything alive and rushed within me. I can't move fast enough, I can't hit hard enough

__

"I TAKE IT YOU HAVE MADE YOUR DECISION?"

Grayson sounds smug. I can't summon the energy to hate her.

"WILL YOU ACCOMPANY GREGORY ON HIS MISSION, CHRISTOPHE SIMON?"

_"Oui," _I sob out. I rest my head against the wall. "_Oui_. I will do it. I will do whatever you want. Just get me out of 'ere. Don't make me stay in 'ere wiz 'im. Don't put me in 'ere wiz anozzere person."

"WE'LL SEND SOMEONE FOR YOU."

I sink down. My knees slide below the snow. I hold my head in my hands. I'm crying now, and I can't stop it, can't hide my weakness from anyone, especially not from Damien.

He tries to put a hand on my shoulder. I shrug him off, but he kneels down next to me. I don't look at him but I can sense his movements from his body heat.

His fingers touch my arm. I slam an elbow into his stomach, and he stumbles back, his teeth clenched. His eyes are huge. He doesn't say anything.

"STAY AWAY!" I scream. "JUST STAY ZE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, ANTICHRIST!"

xxx

The door crashes open and Stan doesn't even have to time to absorb the **things** entering the coffee shop. Something hits him, sending him back into the counter. His head cracks against wood and he's unable to slow his falling weight. His body smacks into the ground.

Pain shoots through him. Before he can orient himself, one of the **things** is on top of him. Hands grip his wrists. The **thing** straddles him. It draws in air, softly, slowly. Tasting him. Tasting his scent.

The **thing** is a person, almost androgynous, tall and ageless looking, with corded muscles and the most beautiful face he's ever seen. He's momentarily shocked into relaxing.

The **thing** hisses out, "I found one!"

Its voice echoes around the coffee shop, almost around the world.

All he can see is the **thing**. All he can feel is the **thing**. It suffocates around him, dragging him down, pressing him against the floor.

His head throbs.

And suddenly he realizes he hates this **thing** more than he's ever hated anything before in his life.

Roaring, he pushes up. The **thing** topples off him, and before it can lurch back up at him, he pounces on top of it and pins it to the floor. He grabs a coffee mug on the floor and bashes it against the **things** head. The pottery shatters in his hands, but he continues to beat at the thing until it's just his bare fists pounding into its skull.

When his hands are bruised and bloody, he drops his hands back and sits back. The floor is in turmoil. He hears violence around him; violence in the form of punches, of screams, of gritted teeth and skin impacting skin.

He can't concentrate or focus on anything except the monster in front of him.

Its face isn't beautiful now as it sits back up. Its nose is push, shoved in. Half of its teeth are missing. He has shoved one of its cheekbones out of place with one of his most violent barrages.

It reaches its arm out, smiling, revealing its broken mouth. He scrambles back, broken shards of pottery digging into his palms. His breath scratches his lungs. His hands close on something metal. A stool leg. The stool seems way too heavy. Waaay too heavy.

The **thing** tries to make a sound. Its mouth opens wide, and teeth fall from its gums.

He swings the stool forward.

It smashes into the **thing**, blowing its head off. The head rolls on the floor. Liquid splatters across Stan's face: salty, coppery. The **thing** remains hunched over for a few seconds, and the muscles release and it falls limp to the wooden floor.

He draws in a breath – one single breath – and then the stump of a neck starts to mend, smooth skin growing back, something bulbous bubbling, blowing up into a sphere. A new head.

Maybe he's shrieking. Maybe he's screaming. He can't tell. All he can do is pound the metal stool into its body, until pieces of flesh shred against the ground and his muscles burn from the exertion.

He drops the chair and leans back against the counter, panting, struggling to heave in air. Now he starts to absorb the details. Like, the **thing's** blood is blue. And amidst the metal tang, he smells oranges rotting and decaying to the point he has to gag from the reek. It's worst thing in the entire world. He knows this instinctively. This **thing** in front of him is the worst thing in the world.

He realizes, knows instinctively, that it's an angel.

The world snaps back into perspective. His ears pick up sound again. Crashing. Shouting. Glass shatters. Wood snaps. Punching. The people around him are fighting the **things**. Cartman is backed up against the wall, a shard of glass in each hand, an angel cornering him. Two angels have Kenny on the floor. One kicks him down while the other binds his hands behind his back with handcuffs. Tweek, Token, Clyde, Craig and Jimmy huddle in a mob. Craig swings his fists at the angel approaching him.

And there's Kyle, crying out as an angel twists his hands over his head and starts snapping a pair of cuffs onto him, trapping him against a wall.

Something snaps inside Stan. He doesn't even comprehend lurching to his feet. One second he's on the floor in a pile of angel guts, and the next he's whaling into Kyle's angel, smashing the metal chair into its head, its ribs, its body, hitting it into the floor. Kyle's screaming. He's screaming. The world blurs away. It's just him and this angel. He knows by instinct this is what he was born to do. This is what's right. Killing this **thing** – killing this abominable, superior, beautiful thing – is what's right.

Then Kyle grabs him and punches him in the face.

Stan's head snaps back. He drops the stool. Blood slicks his fingers.

"Dude," Kyle breathes out. "You killed it, okay? You killed the fucking angels."

He sees its body on the floor, the body of the other one a few feet away. It's mangled, ripped open. The rib cage spills out. Smashed organs, mushed hearts, lungs, livers.

"It was . . . it was going to hurt you . . . " he gasps out.

"I know, dude. You saved me." Somehow, his voice remains steady and calm.

Stan leans against him, even though he's sweaty, bloody, murderous. Kyle is still clean. Blue blood mats against both of them.

Then he throws up.

All over Kyle.

Kyle's wiry body remains steady against him, even though he's covered with vomit. His left hand, which has the handcuffs dangling from it, comes up to pat Stan on the back. "It's okay, dude," he whispers. "It's okay."

It's all he can say, and it doesn't help at all.

"Guys?" Kenny gasps from the floor a dozen feet away. One of the angels pinning him down punches him in the face. "Sorry to interrupt your gay emo angst fest, but can I get a little help over here?"

xxx

The coffee shop is a mess of blue blood and guts by the time they're done. Kenny rubs his wrists and then he and Craig band together in an attempt to get Tweek out of his fetal position.

The wreck of the shop does nothing to prepare them for what they see when they leave the smashed-open double doors.

Peoples are running, screaming. Fires blaze. Cars crash together, alarms blaring. An angel snatches up a frantic woman and tears her body in half. Soldiers with machine guns in their arms mow down the citizens of North Park as they try to escape. Smoke and the reek of rotten oranges fills the air. Stan throws up again before they've even hit the sidewalk.

"Move! Move!" Kenny drags a shrieking Tweek Tweak down the sidewalk. Craig ushers the rest of his gang after them. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman race down the straight in stride with Kenny.

"Aw, man, a town's getting destroyed _again_?" Cartman pants out with disgust.

A soldier wielding a machine gun steps in front of them, but Kenny plows right through him, knocking him down with a kick. He hoists up the guys gun and trains it on other soldiers who attack him, creating a path in the chaos for their little band of teenagers.

Somehow they make it to Craig's car in the parking lot at the end of the street. Kenny hoists a still-spasming Tweek into the backseat. Clyde, Token and Jimmy jump in after him. Craig clambers through the open window and into the driver's seat.

Stan opens the door to climb in, but Craig snaps, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Stan stares at him, his mouth open. "What?"

"Whenever shit happens around here, it's always because of you guys. You assholes are staying as far away from us a possible."

And with that, Craig rolls up his window and tears off, hitting several soldiers on his way out.

The four of them stare at his car, heading off to nowhere.

The soldiers approach them. They're not shooting, not anymore, but several of them have pairs of handcuffs. They mean to take the kids alive.

"Well," Kyle says. "Fuck."

**(Sobbing) It's been so long since I've written a fight scene! A real fight scene, with moral dilemmas and stuff! I also really enjoy mental-breakdown scenes. This chapter is short because I was fed up with it. The next chapter will have a lot of ****"fun" (read: torturous emotional angst shit). Even more so than the Fridge scene. About the Fridge: I'm coming back to that, in the future. (Grins evilly). **

**Thanks for reading. Please review! I'm not going to withhold chapters because I don't get enough reviews (that's kind of a dick move) but they do encourage me to write faster. **


	15. Chapter 15

The helicopter ride is noisy enough we both can pretend not to notice the awkwardness between us. The angels healed up my broken bones and the goose egg on my head, so I don't even have injuries to distract me. Gregory and I sit opposite each other. I sit my hands. He crosses his arms and sits back on the built-in bench.

The engine buzzes around us. The soldiers sitting in the cockpit pointedly ignore the both of us. Air whips through the open doors and tears at my hair.

When a soldier tells us we're ten minutes from our destination, I have to ask. Otherwise I'll probably end up getting killed.

"So. What are we fighting?" I growl out.

He blinks.

"WHAT ARE WE FIGHTING?" I shout.

"-DEMON," he shouts back.

"NO SHEET SHERLOCK," I spit back. "WHAT KIND OF DEMON? 'OW MANY?"

"ONE."

They need two of us for one demon? He must catch my expression, because he offers an explanation.

"IT'S AN EXTREMELY POWERFUL DEMON. IT'S EATEN MANY SOULS. IT'LL BE DIFFICULT TO TAKE DOWN."

"WHY DO YOU KNOW ZIS AND NOT ME?"

"BECAUSE I DIDN'T HAVE TO BE THROWN IN THE FRIDGE TO BE CONVINCED TO GO."

My glower is unrivaled.

"CAN I 'AVE MY SHOVEL BACK?"

"I DON'T HAVE IT ON ME, SORRY."

Fucking sarcasm. No one has the right to use it except me. "CAN I 'AVE_A_ SHOVEL?"

"NOT ALL OF US ARE IN THE HABIT OF CARRYING GARDENING EQUIPMENT AROUND WITH US, CHRISTOPHE."

Fucking bitch. I go silent, sour.

The helicopter starts to hover. I think one of the soldiers said something about us going somewhere in northern Ontario. Eh, Canada. When I peer outside the doors, the icy wind slaps at my face, sucking my breath away from me. The ground below is covered in snow. Fucking Canada.

"DON'T WE NEED PARACHUTES?" I shout over the roar of the wind.

Gregory grins evilly.

I see the demon below, and I can't hold back the gulp. The thing stretches out to the size of like three goddamn eighteen-wheelers. There's a highway below us, and it crashes its reptilian body over the road, cracking pavement. It's black with a slimy coating to its smooth skin. It tips its head up at us and roars. Even from hundreds of feet up, I still feel my bones shake. The thing reeks, and the odor reaches us and makes me gag.

"WE HAVE TO FIGHT THAT THING?" I shout.

"YES."

"I WANT MY FUCKING SHOVEL."

And in response to my parachute question, he lunges across the chopper, scoops me into his arms, and jumps out into open sky.

I shout as the air screams past us. It rips through my body, tugging on my clothing, drowning out the roaring of blood in my ears. The ground widens as we plummet downwards, ready to accept us –

Then Gregory's wings snap out.

The sudden halt of momentum makes me shriek like a little girl in pain. Instead of falling, we're floating up and down in a gently beat, the chilly air now supporting us like a bubble.

I get over the idea that I'm going to die. I also realize I'm holding onto Gregory like my life depends on it. My fingers dig into his jacket. I curl into his arms instinctively. I really do not want to die here.

His wings are pure white and at least twenty feet across. I don't think it's biologically possible for something that big to move like that, but then again, he's a Heavenfilth with fucking wings, we've gotten over this "biologically possible" notion ages ago. They drift up and down in smooth succession. Hesitantly, I reach up over his shoulder and trace my fingers over a foot-long feather. I realize how different he and Damien are.

"This is what we can do with Celestial power."

"Fuck your celestial power; I'm not learning it." But I can't keep my eyes off his wings.

"You should, mole," he says quietly, and I take my situation in. I'm in Gregory's arms hundred of feet above the ground, completely and utterly reliant on him. It's difficult to imagine worse circumstances.

"We need your help in the upcoming war."

He pronounces each syllable perfectly. He lost his accent a while ago, while I clung to mine.

"I refuse."

"You can't refuse us forever."

He kisses me. Just for a second. I stiffen in his arms and turn my head away.

"I'm not yours," I snarl, "and I would like to remind you zat you are an asshole and I 'ate you. Just because you 'ave me trapped does not mean you control me. And I'm married now, _beetch_."

He gives a slight laugh, one that pisses the hell out of me.

"I don't see how you can fuck the antichrist," he says without humor, "seeing as he smells like this filth down here."

He nods his head down at the reptile demon below us.

"I guess we can see what side you've chosen."

"Fuck you!" I gasp out, but I realize I'm trapped, trapped forever, because he's right, I've chosen a side, they've made me choose.

I feel my mind slipping into the cold apathy of the mole. It's easier this way. It's easier to just not care, to just fight for survival.

The mole can just let Gregory take him down here, and then they will fight the demon (and win, hopefully) and then Gregory can do whatever the fuck he wants with him, and the Yardale School can do whatever the fuck they want with him, and it'll all be okay, it's all okay, as long as he stays alive it's all okay.

And then he remembers Damien's words.

_Don't let this fucked-up place we're headed for tear that from you, because it's who you are. Jesus fucking Christ, I barely know you and I can see that. Don't let them destroy you. You chose what happens, you fight your way out. You make your own freedom. Got it? _

It takes a physical effort to snap my eyes open and glare at Gregory with full force.

"Maybe I _'ave _chosen, cocksucker," I snarl out. "But zat doesn't matter right now. We've got to fight zis fucking zing, so let's fight it."

XXX

We land on the ground like a leaf fluttering down from a tree. He sets me on my feet. I'm happy with myself when I don't stagger.

The demon thing is a few hundred feet away from us, ripping at snow-coated pine trees. It stinks down here, the coppery-iron scent flooding my nose. I breathe through my mouth, then drag my jacket collar up over my nose, but it still doesn't help.

"Ze Yardale School expects us to kill zis wiz just ze two of us?" Yes, I get the irony of this statement compared to my stance before.

"I've done larger on my own." He doesn't even blink. "They just want you to get a taste of battle."

His wings fade into his back, leaving him ordinary human. Then a sword a dozen feet sprouts in his hands. Ice cracks and forms over his right hand, attaching to his skin up to the elbow.

The ice-blade is a dozen feet long and has to weigh at least two hundred pounds. He wields it like it's feather-light, twisting the blade to the side so the point doesn't bury into the ground.

This is not the Gregory I know. The Gregory I know would rather plan tactics and order others into the fight than throw himself into the frenzy.

I wonder what the angels have been doing to him in the last ten years to break him like this.

"We need to attack its eyes," he says. "It's vulnerable at the stomach, the mouth – if you avoid the teeth –and the temples. If you hack off its ears it should be useless, since it relies mostly on sense of sound."

"Are you fucking insane?" I gasp out.

He smiles, a sarcastic, bitter smirk I've never seen on anyone before. "I remember when we were young. I would ask you that question all the time."

Then ice grows under his feet. It waves out and sends his form shooting towards the demon.

XXX

The tail crashes down next to my head. The impact sends me into the air. I fly back and crash, smash into a tree. Pain vibrates through me. Sick agony overtakes me. For a second I can't breath, can't see. I cough, and my bruised ribs send a throbbing ache through me.

The demon's face hovers above mine. Its head is the size of a fucking house. One foggy red hula-hoop of an eye examines me. I can't breath. Not out of fear. The thing reeks.

"Fuck you," I snarl, and snap out a punch. My fist slams into the milky goo of its eye. It blinks and draws back. It blinks again, more from annoyance than pain. I draw my fist back to my chest. The gunk oozes over my fingers.

_That worked well. _

Then the demon opens its mouth. My gag reflex makes me retch twice. Gore sticks to its yellow, three-feet long teeth. Its forked, reptilian tongue pokes out of its mouth and trails over to rest on my shoulder. I shudder but don't move. The mouth draws closer, until I'm close enough to stretch a hand out and trace the teeth.

_"Beetch_," I mutter, but I can't move, can't alarm it. It continues to inspect me. Maybe it'll think I'm not edible. Then it inhales. Air rushes past me. Foliage flies into its mouth with its inhale. And now it has my scent, the scent of a High Heavenfilth.

It lets out a growl and the mouth starts to snap forward. I jerk back and hit the tree. Teeth swing down close to my head.

Then the demon wails and jolts away. I collapse to the ground. And there's Gregory with the hilt of his sword buried into the monster's skull.

"Magic is useful!" he calls out to me right before the monster shakes its head and throws him off it. He lands somewhere a few hundred feet okay. I'm going to (maybe) hope he's okay.

I scrabble to my feet and start to run. The demon scoops me up with one claw and hoists me into the air. I let out a shriek as my feet are torn out from under me. It lifts my squirming form up to its milky red eye again. Gregory's sword is still sticking out of its head.

It bellows at me. A chunk of something putrid flies out of its mouth and slaps against my cheek.

And I decide that no matter what I've promised myself, I'm not going to die here and give Gregory the fucking satisfaction of knowing he's stronger than me.

Fury fills me. I don't know magic, I don't know the rules, so I don't use them. Instead, I reach out for what I know I need right now. My shovel. Goddamn it, _I need my shovel._

And then it's there in my hands, the handle with its familiar firm grip resting against my palms. I stare down (I'm still upside down and my hands are dangling below me). Um. Did I do magic? Is that good or bad?

Who the fucking hell cares, it's my shovel!

I let out a whoop and slam the spade into the finger clenched around me. The demon howls and starts to release me. Instead of letting it drop me, I twist around its grasp, clambering up over its paw-like hands. I run over the right reptilian arm, ducking as its left hand comes down to slam onto my head.

It misses me, barely. I smack my shovel into the left hand as it pulls away. The demon howls and raises its arms up into the air.

_FUCK!_ My stomach bounces around in my body as I'm dragged a hundred feet into the air with the simple motion. _Forget roller-coaster rides._ I release my grip on the arm and start to slide over its slimy, smooth skin, skidding and toppling over as I roll down its hill of a body.

It waves its arms, and the land literal disappears from under my feet. I start to drop, but fortunately I was twenty feet above its head and I land on its skull, falling into a crouch. My combat boots dig into its skin. The demon lowers its hands to the ground and starts twisting its head from side to side, probably in a search for me.

I grab onto a fold of flesh and hold on with my free left hand. My other hand grips my shovel. My brain rattles around in my head as the demon searches for me. The momentum jerks my body back and forth. Finally, it stops moving, and I can stand steady again.

I lift my shovel over my head and smash it into its ear with ten times my normal strength.

The thing roars and shrieks and writhes. I keep my grip on it for a few more seconds, but then it flings me the ground.

My senses are lost amongst a fury of pain. Rubble scrapes against my skin. Pavement smacks against my body. Road rash slices over my flesh and tears at my clothes. My mouth tastes like gravel.

I think I let out a moan, but I can't hear anything over the blood rushing in my ears. I wipe a clot of blood out of my eyes with a shaking hand.

Cracked chunks of the highway bury me and trap me. My shovel disappears and fades. I gape at the spot where it used to be. _Screw magic_.

Then the roaring demon above me catches my attention.

It howls down at me. The sound sends my insides to screaming.

Then something white streaks through the air. Gregory slams into the demon, his wings furling behind him as he impacts. Ice spreads out from him and encases the monster's head, inch-by-inch, foot-by-foot. It flings itself about, but he holds onto it and the ice keeps spreading until it coats the demon's neck.

The thing opens its mouth to roar, and its entire head shatters.

XXXX

The demon's body collapses to the ground, making everything vibrate from the sheer weight.

Gregory leaps to the ground with the falling chunks of ice and lands in a catlike stance. The ice disappears from his hands. He surveys the still form of the demon for a few seconds, then saunters over to me.

I can barely see him out of the blood clouding my vision. I spit out a tooth and shove away the pavement around me. Somehow, I manage to crawl out of the pile of broken street. My clothes hang off my in shreds. A million cuts decorate my body. My right arm hangs at an awkward angle. I can't hear out of my left ear, and when I touch in, it's missing several chunks, which would explain the headache.

I flop onto my back. It hurts to breathe. Probably my bruised ribs.

Gregory stands over me. I peer up at him.

"You used your magic," he says. His voice is monotonous, as if he couldn't care either way.

"F-f-fuck you."

He snorts and kneels down next to me. My vision blackens. My hearing goes. Even though every sensation is clouded, I feel his hands on my shoulders. Magic pumps though me, the only vivid feeling in my dark world. I must scream as my bones knit back together, and I don't know how much time passes before I open my eyes again.

Gregory is sweating when he pulls his hands back. He forces me to sit up.

I hunch over. My arms feel like someone tied fifty-pound weights to them. My skin is smooth and clean. My clothes are still ragged.

He rips the last shreds of my jacket and shirt from my torso. I shiver violently in the Canadian chill. He holds out his hands and concentrates, his eyes narrowed. Something starts to appear in the air in front of him. After a few seconds of glaring at the dark blob in the air, it solidifies into a dark jacket and falls into Gregory's hands. He gives it to me and I shrug it on, leaving it unbuttoned.

"Zat . . . was nozing like ze demons we used to fight," I say finally. "When we were little."

"Of course," he says. "When we were little we only fought the straggler demons, the ones that escaped from Hell against Satan's will. Now we're fighting the demons he sends to earth to terrorize the heaven-allied. This is the build-up to the war."

I close my eyes and start to lie back down. Before I can, he grabs me around the waist so I'm leaning back in his lap.

"Cut eet out," I warn. I don't want to expend the energy by struggling away from him.

He sighs and lets me lean back into the street. It's freezing cold.

Gregory smells nothing like Damien. It's probably because he's another Heavenfilth, but to me, he smells like peace. And leather and oranges.

It's not enough to make me lower my guard.

Gregory might have the pretty-boy looks, he might have our past and our deep connections, he might be what's **right** – as another one of Heaven's-Allied –

But you know what? I never chose to be a High Heavenfilth. And even though he's confident now, with his blank expression and crossed arms, I know how easily he breaks down and reverts to the scared little boy who refused to escape with me for a second time back when we were seven years old.

"Do you think we'll ever be friends again?" he asks.

"No."

He sighs.

"Mole, I'm sor-"

"_Don't_ call me zat," I snap. "And don't you _ever _say zat word to me, Gregory Zorne." My tongue trips over the pronunciation of his last name. "You do not deserve to ever say zat word. Not after all zat bullsheet. Not after what you deed."

He's quiet.

Then, "The Yardale School isn't too bad, Christophe."

I give a hoarse laugh and open my eyes. "You must 'ave forgotten 'ow zey 'ave 'urt us over ze years. Or 'as ze Grayson lady finally left you alone after you got too old for 'er tastes?"

He flinches. That was a low blow on my part. I don't let any remorse show in my expression.

He's sitting next to me, his face and upper body in view. He didn't suffer a scratch from the demon fight, even when it threw him hundreds of feet away. Or maybe he healed himself up. He looks about as exhausted as I am. His hair is matted all over his head and dirt cakes his clothes. Beads of sweat wet his forehead even in the cold. He's far from the usual perfection he wears.

Instead of responding to my previous statement, he says, "The helicopter will probably be back to pick us up in about ten minutes. They've probably seen that we defeated the demon by now."

"Zat's great," I mutter.

"Although it was mostly me," he murmurs back with a spark of a pride and competitiveness. His statement makes me remember our days back when we were both trapped in Yardale School, back before my second and final escape. _Everything _about this fight makes me remember those days.

"Whatever, cocksucker." The words slip out of my mouth on their own accord. We both stare at each other in surprise. Then I return to glowering at him.

"If we hadn't killed the demon," he says, recovering from his shock, "it probably would have killed a lot of people. It had already trampled through one town, killing about a hundred."

"Whatever."

"You can't mean that, Christophe," he says. "I remember you. I remember how you risked yourself for that kid, Jordan, than one time. And all the times you sacrificed yourself for Maria and Chase. You went back to the Yardale school just for them. You were always the hero-"

"Well, maybe I'm not anymore!" I snarl. "I can play 'ero all I want, but in ze end, being a 'ero was what let the Yardale School grab onto bothz of us! It was my 'eoric tendencies' zat let zem capture us again, back the first time after we tried to escape. If I didn't care about people we bothz would 'ave been free and I wouldn't 'ave been on my own for ten years! So fuck being a 'ero, because eet will not get you anywhere!"

The mole and Gregory stare at each other.

"So I finally got through to you," Gregory says.

"Fuck you, you fucking British Fag," the mole says, his accent thick and harsh. "You might zink you are serv-eeng ze world by letting yourself play as 'eaven's slave, but really, you're just let-eeng zem yank you around." He lets out a short laugh. "But really, what does eet matter? As long as you are alive, _oui_?"

"Did it ever cross your mind, _mole_," Gregory snaps back, "that the Yardale School might be the good guys. They might be doing the right thing for the wrong reasons."

"Bullsheet. Zat ees not why you stay wizth zem. You stay wizth zem because you are too afraid to struggle free of zeir grasp." The mole sits up and smirks at him, his arms crossed.

"Or maybe," Gregory says, "_you're _the one who's too afraid to fight for anything."

The mole laughs.

"Maybe I am," he says. "So. Fucking. What?"

Then he punches the smug British bitch in the face.

xxx

The soldiers lead me through the long staircases of Yardale. Up to my room, I think, although they could probably take me to a cell at this point and I wouldn't fight back. I'm numb, my mind replaying Gregory's words.

I'm not afraid. That's not why I've been running from the Yardale School all these years. I've been running to stay free. Right?

I'm not afraid.

_I'm not._

And the people at Yardale are not "the good guys." In this bullshit war, there are no good guys – just two sides who both want the exact same thing (control). Both Heaven and Hell are self-serving assholes.

_Even though Yardale does protect people from the demons._

I shove the thought away, but it sticks to my mind like glue, threading its way through my internal arguments.

I hate the Yardale School, I decide. _I hate them_. Even if they help people, they are still assholes that are going to rot. I never signed up for this bullshit.

But, god, I'm so fucking tired.

My muscles groan in protest as I trail after the soldiers. They decided to have an escort on me after I punched Gregory back in Canada. Decided my state of mind was too volatile or something.

We're on the fourth floor, I think. Does the Yardale School not have working elevators?

"I want food," I mutter. They all glance back at me.

One of them, the tallest one with a Mohawk, snickers. The other two full-on laugh.

"What's so funny, cocksuckers?" I snap.

"Oh, that's rich," the blond one says. "Coming from the fag."

I glower at them. I'm never experienced homophobia before, seeing as I'm not gay. You'd expect better from Heaven's soldiers. Aren't they supposed to believe in love or whatever?

"Fuck you. Just take me to get some food."

We're on the landing between the fourth and the fifth floor. I've got a feeling this conversation will not end well.

"Orders were to take you straight up to your room. Apparently, they want you to sleep. Seems as you've had a long day." Blondie sniggers.

"Cocksuckers. No need to act like whiny beetches-"

The third one punches me in the stomach. My exhaustion slows down my reactions. I don't have the strength to block him. I double over and slide to the ground, my back against the wall. _Oui,_this will not end well.

The one who punched me leans down and gets right up into my face. He starts shouting at me, but I focus more on his lip piercing. Was it painful to get that? It seems like it would be painful.

"You're getting way out of line, you little fag-" Lip Piercing is shouting. I tune back into him.

"Really, you can not tell me anyzing I 'aven't 'eard before, so why even try?" Not my best sarcastic comeback, but the smirk makes my delivery perfect. His expression darkens.

Even though the Low Heavenfilth soldiers have been treating me with a lot more respect, to them I'm still an upstart kid they can kick me around whenever they want.

Blondie punches me in the face. My head snaps back. I taste blood. The pain oozes through me briefly, but I clench my teeth (_ow_) and fight it away.

"Fuck. You." I speak clearly through my gritted teeth. Then as an afterthought, I add, "Fags."

This time, it's Mohawk who punches me. I lean my head back against the wall. My body shuts down, telling my mind, _that's it, I'm out of energy. We're done_. All I do is stare up at the three assholes. Fuck, I'm tired. And sick of this.

Maybe Gregory's right. Maybe I am afraid to fight back. Maybe that's why I've been running from these assholes. Because the Yardale School owns me. I hate the bastards, but I know whom I belong to. I know it deep down. They've owned me ever since that day eleven years ago when I watched them kill my twin brother and all those other kids around me just to make a point. I never ever had a _choice,_ and I've been fooling myself into thinking I do.

I barely register Mohawk unzipping his pants, although I do notice when Blondie punches me in the gut. I cough and Lip Piercing grabs my mouth and forces me to keep it open. Someone presses a knife against my throat. And then there's something in my mouth, something ramming against my throat, and I cough and choke on Mohawk, but he just grabs my hair and doesn't let me pull away.

_Been a while since I've been raped,_ I think foggily, but hell, I've been through this before, I know how to deal with it. And so I proceed to deal.

xxx

The mole closes his eyes and when Mohawk growls for him to suck, he obeys without debate. He ignores the taste and the sick, wrong feel. He ignores the instinctive hatred of any form of sex. He swallows when ordered, and then when Mohawk finally pulls out he manages one full breath of air before bending over and throwing up.

"Not much of a fag," the blond one snickers, and they yank him up when he finishes vomiting, and the Mole resigns himself to a hell of a beating.

It's Blondie's turn with his mouth. The mole keeps his eyes clenched closed and his fists tightened at his sides. _This _bastard insists on coming all over his face. _Nasty._ The mole doesn't let a muscle twitch.

"Aw, man, he's not even screaming or anything. Downer." Mohawk deliberately steps on one of the mole's hands, which makes the mole hiss in pain. He doesn't even try to fight back.

"My turn. Flip 'im on his stomach," Lip Piercing says.

"Woah. Dude. You don't actually want to _fuck _him, do you? That's . . . _really _gay." Blondie's gaze flickers from the mole to Lip Piercing.

"Just do it. Maybe it'll finally make him freak."

"We could use the shock collar or something to freak him out," Mohawk suggests.

"No way. This'll be more fun." Lip Piercing laughs.

"Okay, dude," Blondie says nervously. He grabs the mole's shoulders and shoves him onto his stomach. The mole slides his arms under his face, resting his head against his hands.

"Dude, he's so compliant. This is freaky." Mohawk laughs nervously.

"Fucker. He must really enjoy this." Lip Piercing stomps on his back with a boot. The Mole clenches his teeth.

"Faggot," Lip Piercing adds.

Lip Piercing straddles him and reaches around his body to grab at his belt. The Mole hisses at the contact. Revulsion and disgust travel up his spine, but he pushes the feelings away. He has to stay calm and detached, otherwise this will emotionally scar him. He has to not care; otherwise what these assholes do to him will actually affect him. And when he lets it affect him, _that's_ when they win.

His pants are yanked down, leaving him in his boxers. He breathes deep, hoping they'll at least have the courtesy to lube him up with spit. Doubtful.

"_What the fuck are you assholes doing?"_

The mole recognizes the voice.

Then someone slams into Lip Piercing, knocking him off of him. "Run, Christophe!" Damien yells.

The mole rolls over. Damien is sitting on top of Lip Piercing, slamming punch after punch into his face. Mohawk fumbles with something in his pocket and pulls out a sort of remote control.

Blue sparks dance out of the collar around Damien's neck and over his body. His back arches. He screams, voice spiking two octaves. Lip Piercing shoves him away and he hits the ground.

"Where the hell did this fag come from?" Lip Piercing snaps.

"Thought he was supposed to stay in his room." Blondie squints down at him. "Regular pair of fairies, they are."

The mole sits up and stares at Damien.

The sparks fade away from Damien's body and he stops writhing. He sits up and mutters _ow._ His eyes glaze over. He stares at the mole blearily.

"Run . . . _Christophe_ . . . "

Something burns within the mole.

"I'll fuck him up, too," Lip Piercing growls. He kicks Damien and the antichrist falls back onto his side, groaning. Lip Piercing kicks him again. Damien glares up at him with hate-filled eyes.

"Christophe, run," he manages. "I'll hold 'em off. Run."

"He's the son of Satan. Isn't that kind of-" Mohawk starts.

"Why not? _He's_ doing it." Lip Piercing jerks his head towards the mole.

"Good point." Blondie sniggers and kicks Damien, even though he's already down.

And then _I_ snap.

I roar to my feet, ignoring the protest of my aching muscles. I slam a fist into Blondie's face, crunching his nose. He falls back, crying out. I surge through the air and smash a kick into his chest. He bowls over and hits the floor on his butt.

Mohawk lunges at me. I duck around him and drive my elbow into his gut. He staggers back, and before he can regain his balance I body-slam him. He hits the opposite wall and crumples to the ground.

I don't even take the time to celebrate my victory. I scoop their dropped knife up off the floor, the one they held against my throat to keep me from biting while they forced me to blow them.

Lip Piercing holds up his hands in defense. I throw the knife.

It sticks in his right eye. His head jerks back and his hands go up. His cry is primal, wild, not even human. I jump for him and plant both feet into his chest. He slams down onto his back and I crouch on top of him. His blood – smelling faintly of rotten oranges – slicks my fingers when I yank the knife from his eye.

He's still screaming. I stamp my bare foot down on his neck, crushing something important.

Blondie has risen to his feet, clutching at his gushing nose. He staggers towards me, free hand outstretched. I throw the knife again.

The blade impacts his neck hard enough to pin him back against the wall. His mind probably doesn't have time to register the pain before it flickers out.

I fall to my knees, gasping for breath.

So. I'm strong enough to win.

My face scrunches up, and I'm not crying because I'm too strong to cry, but my inability to hold a straight expression means these bastards succeeded in emotionally impacting me. It means they won.

Damien stands up and looks down at me for almost a minute. I stare at his knees. Then he reaches out a hand and helps me to my feet. His face is bruised from one of the times those bastards kicked him.

I don't know exactly when I start to sob. Sometime between him helping me to my feet and me falling into his arms. This is the second time today I've cried in front of Damien. This is the second time I've cried in the past, what, nine, ten, eleven years?

"I don't care what zey do to me," I mutter.

"Yes, you do," he says gently, disagreeing and agreeing at the same time. He pulls off his t-shirt and uses it to wipe the blood and cum from my face. "It's okay, Christophe. It's okay to be vulnerable every once and a while."

"No, eet's not," I mutter, but I lean against him anyway. Unlike before in the Fridge, I don't push him away.

I don't know why I let him hold me.

"You don't have to carry the whole world on your own, you know." And he kisses me on the forehead, and I keep crying. Aw, screw it; I don't care what he thinks of me anymore, I don't want to need to put up my strong front in front of him.

I sniffle against his shoulder, wipe my nose with his t-shirt, and look up into his dark red eyes.

"Sorry about zat," I mutter.

"If you hadn't already killed them," he said, "I would."

"Zat one ees still alive." I jerk my head towards Mohawk, who is moaning and trying to get up.

He lets go of me to yank the knife from Blondie's neck.

The things he does to Mohawk in the next two minutes are things I cannot even describe, thing I never want to see Damien do again, because they confirmed a side of him that scares me; a side of him that could break me even more so than I already am.

When he turns back to me, his teeth are glistening with Low Heavenfilth blood, and he's smiling sadly.

Soldiers run up the stairs, carrying guns. They stop when they see the three bodies and the two of us covered in blood. They must have seen the events unfolding on the cameras. Of course, they only decided to step in when the two of us stopped playing victim.

"If you don't mind," Damien says, "I'm going to take my mate up to our room, and if any of you freaks ever hurt him again, I will do the same to you tenfold."

He hoists me into his arms, carrying me bridal-style. With Gregory before, it was a way to intimidate me, to make me dependant.

He doesn't smell sweet. Actually, because he's a Hellspawn, he smells pretty nasty. Copper and blood.

He doesn't smell _like _peace and safety.

He doesn't have to.

To me, he _is _safety.

xxx

He tells me why he was there to save me; Maria told him I was back, and after a while of waiting he grew impatient and started to look for me. Lucky for me.

We're in our bed, his arm thrown around me, hugging me to him. I don't mind. I like physical contact when it's with people I can stand and/or trust.

I can tell he's not asleep from his breathing. His heartbeat is just a bit too fast.

No matter if my eyes are closed or open, it's just as dark.

"Damien?"

"Mm?'

"No one 'as ever saved me before."

_I've always had to save myself._

He takes a few seconds to respond.

"I won't fuck around with you, Christophe," he says. "I won't play games to screw with your head. I won't test your loyalties or your trust. I'll just save you."

My hair is still damp from my shower. I scrubbed myself for a long time after we returned to my/our room. I stuck soap on my mouth and gargled water and mouthwash.

I can still taste the way the soldiers felt in my mouth.

His fingers tangle in my hair. He doesn't expect anything from me. I can tell. I can tell by his even breathing and warm embrace.

I roll over and kiss him. His mouth tastes like copper. Much better.


	16. Chapter 16

**First of all, thanks for all the reviews! They really mean so much to me. Second: This update is early (I wasn't going to update until Saturday) so it's an all little!Christophe chapter. (Even though I said I wouldn't have any more of those . . .) I listened to plenty of depressing music while writing this chapter. Please enjoy!**

Christophe doesn't even have time to process waking up before someone yanks him by his hair and plunges his head into the frigid water.

He screams and tries to thrash free, his shoulders shaking back and forth. He can't break out of the grip on his body.

Dark spots start to dance in front of him. His vision shrinks, so he closes his eyes. He keeps his lips pressed together.

It's cold down here, cold enough for his head to ache. (Or maybe that's just the lack of oxygen.)

He makes himself stay calm. He focuses his thoughts on **what the hell is happening**. _What's the last thing I remember?_ Think, think-

And then his body sends his mind panic signals. _I'M DYING I'M DYING I'M DYING. _He needs air. AIR. He needs air RIGHT NOW. BREATHE. BREATHE. BREATHE.

He gasps out and inhales water. It burns down his throat. His entire being screams. Every inch of him is on fire. He struggles and thrashes again, but whoever's holding him down is keeping him trapped and he's _dying_ and-

The person drags him back up.

He sucks in air and coughs. Water spews from his mouth. He hunches over and coughs and then starts to vomit up more water, but he doesn't care, he's breathing, he's breathing-

Then the person holding him shoves him back under the water.

He screams but all it does is send millions of white little bubbles into the water around him. He knows from experience that he can't break free, but he struggles anyway. The person holding him pushes his head down deeper. His torso, still dry, digs into the metal wall of the . . . pool? They must be shoving him into some sort of pool.

He barely managed to recuperate from his last near-drowning. The dying sensation starts to creep back.

It starts in his fingers. His hands are tied behind his back, rendering him helpless. The dying sensation slides up his arms, twisting over his shoulder, then sinking down into his heart.

Dying. He's dying.

He needs air.

He screams again. Water floods his mouth and lungs. He coughs into the water, which only makes him choke more and he can't see and-

The person lets him back up. He coughs some more. At least he doesn't vomit this time. His eyes sting from the water, but he forces himself to examine his surroundings. A metal pool with maybe a ten-foot radius stretches out in front of him. Dark water laps against the edges. The only source of light in whatever room he's in is behind him. He can tell from the darkness that coats every corner in this room.

He tries to twist around to see who's holding him, but they push him back into the pool.

The water consumes him yet again. He holds his breath, closes his eyes, and waits for it to be over. He can maintain cool indifference for about a minute. And then the water will invade his mouth and lungs, rush through his insides and make him scream.

When the person drags him up a third time, he decides they must be a woman. Their hands are a small, and sharp nails dig into his bare skin.

He gasps air and tries to stammer out, "what . . . ze 'ell . . . ees going-"

She plunges him into the pool for a fourth time.

_Stay calm,_ he tells himself. _You're not going to actually drown. You're not going to actually die. It's fine. It's completely fine. She won't let you die_.

In another minute, panic and fear and oxygen deprivation have driven away any semblance of logic, and he's screaming and thrashing and breathing the murky water again.

xxx

When she drags him up for the seventh time, he hears her voice hissing in his ears, a smooth, catlike purr.

"Now, you've been very bad, haven't you, Christophe?"

"Burn in 'ell . . ._beetch_ . . . " he gargles out.

She shoves him back under and drowns him yet again. When he's brought to the surface after almost two minutes, he can't argue with her or tell her to fuck off.

"Children mustn't swear," she chastises. "Now. You've done some very bad things in the past few weeks. What's the worse thing you've done, Christophe?"

She finally releases him, and he can turn up to look at her. She's barely more than eighteen, but he can see how tall she is even when she's kneeling next to him. She has the Low Heavenfilth 'feel' to her. Her eyes are hooded and her lips curled in a smile.

He retches on the tiled floor a few more times.

The last thing he can remember is riding on the bus with Gregory . . . no . . . now he recalls staking out the Yardale School, practicing with their guns for a few days, sneaking in through the gates in the dead of night . . . climbing a wall . . . popping the latch on a window . . . creeping down a hallway . . . the video cameras in the corner . . . an alarm going off.

The lady in kneeling next to him smiles and waits patiently for him to finish gagging up his guts.

He's lying on the floor, staring up at her now. She thinks she controls him. She thinks she can threaten him.

"What's ze worse zing I've done?" he muses. "Probably let myself get caught."

Her expression darkens.

She forces him up by his hair again and shoves him back into the pool.

xxx

He feels her fingernails on his body, tracing over his stomach, and the sensations make him shiver in disgust.

"Oh, Christophe," she murmurs. "You simply don't understand."

He ignores her as he coughs and tries to breathe as much as he can before she makes him go back into the water.

"You're so special." Her arms tighten around him and she pulls him into her lap. "So very special. You just don't understand."

This holding thing is less painful than the drowning thing, so he doesn't protest when she starts to stroke through his hair.

"You just have to work with us, and it'll be perfect. We're the good guys, Christophe. You need to understand that."

He mutters something. She cocks her ear.

"What's that, Christophe?"

"I said . . . burn in 'ell-"

This time, he welcomes the water's cool embrace.

xxx

He's not crying, because he never cries. He doesn't have the energy, anyway.

He doesn't know how many times she's near-drowned him. They've been doing this for hours. He lost track ages ago.

"You poor thing." She strokes his hair and purrs his name out.

He can't push her away, can't swear at her anymore. He breathes and focuses on her collarbone, which is what's right in front of him.

"You're just a child."

He can't argue with that.

"You don't understand, but it's not your fault."

This talking thing also qualifies as better than the drowning thing, so he doesn't tell her to screw herself.

"You just need to admit what you did wrong, Christophe."

"Deedn't . . . do anyzing . . . wrong . . . " he mumbles in spite of himself.

She stops stroking his hair.

"You know what you did."

He shakes his head.

"You don't want to go into that nasty water again, do you?"

He shakes his head again.

"Then, come. You know what you did wrong. Say it with me. 'I, Christophe Simon-"

He manages to pronounce the syllables, even though it hurts his raw throat to speak.

"Performed a misdeed against the Yardale School, against the human Race, and against Heaven when I escaped."

He repeats her words without even attempting to process their meaning.

"And I will never do it again."

'And I will never do eet again."

"I will always stand by God's side."

"I will always stand by –"

He stops and glares up at her. Somehow, he croaks out, "Fuck you, _beetch_."

She shoves his entire upper body back into the pool.

xxx

This time, he's under long enough for it to knock him out. When he opens his eyes again, he's flat on his back and the lady is crouched over him, straddling his tiny body.

Her lips brush against his cheek.

"Say it, Christophe," she murmurs.

He says it.

xxx

A soldier drags him into a bathroom, strips him out of his ratty, stolen jeans and dresses him in the uniform. Black tank, black sweatpants, no shoes. He continues to shiver but the soldier just laughs when he asks for a jacket.

The soldier hauls him out of the bathroom by his hair and deposits him in front of the lady, who has been waiting patiently with her arms crossed and her lips curved up in a smile. Now that Christophe's in one of the long hallways of Yardale, he can take in her appearance better. She wears a pencil skirt, high heels, and a button-up blouse. He wouldn't expect someone to commit such violence in such an outfit.

"Well, don't you look nice." She pets his hair, which is still sopping wet. "A little disorderly, though."

She takes him back into the bathroom herself and pulls out a pair of scissors. She snips at his shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair after setting him on the counter. Strands of hair fall into the sink and onto the floor. He closes his eyes and wishes he could go back to sleep.

The fluorescent lights hum and buzz in time to his heartbeat.

She slides the scissors back into her purse. "There," she says, ruffling his hair, which is now short and neat. "Much better."

She kisses him on the forehead, and he doesn't have the energy to flinch away.

"Come, now, we must see Mr. White." She offers him a hand, and this time he does flinch.

"Mr. White's nice. And I'm sure he won't be angry with you if you do what you're told. You can do that, can't you, Christophe?"

He nods.

"Good boy." She helps him off the counter and exits the bathroom. The soldier waiting outside smirks.

"I can handle him on my own," she says.

The soldier shrugs and saunters off. The lady holds his hand as she leads him through the hallways.

"I'm your friend Gregory's new teacher because his last one was injured in battle. You have a new teacher too, you know. Her name is Ms. Kingston. My name is Ms. Grayson. And I already know your name, of course."

He's quiet.

"You're excited to see your little friend Gregory again, aren't you? That's good, because he's with Mr. White right now."

". . . _more ._ . . "

"What's that, Christophe?"

He looks up at her, his dark gaze defiant.

"Gregory ees more zan just my _friend_," he says, putting heavy emphasis on the key word.

She stops and slaps him with her free hand.

He puts the hand not holding hers to his stinging cheek.

She glares down at him.

"I don't want to hear that kind of talk from you again," she says. "The angels might be blind to it, but that kind of thing is quite unnatural, Christophe, and you must stop feeling that way."

"I don't care."

She pats him on the head. "Oh, Christophe," she says gently, "but you should."

He says nothing.

She starts to lead him down the hallway again. She's quiet for several minutes.

"Here we are," she says finally.

They stop in front of a large door with the number 509 on it. She knocks twice, and inside the room Mr. White calls, "come in!"

Chills run up Christophe's spine. He honestly cannot put into words how much he hates Mr. White.

Ms. Grayson opens the door and leads him into the room.

It's a small office, Mr. White's office. Mr. White is leaning back in a large chair behind his desk. Stacks of files, papers, and pencils little his desk. He's the same lean, hungry-looking man Christophe remembers from the worst moments in his life so far. His brother Owen dying. Being forced to kill Emma.

Mr. White wears the same smile and the same black suit. His eyes glimmer behind his glasses.

Gregory sits in one of the three chairs across from Mr. White, his hands at his sides, his feet dangling in the air. He's dressed in a uniform, too. He glances back when Christophe and Ms. Grayson enter the room. They examine each other.

_You're not injured_, Christophe's gaze says.

_You look like hell_, Gregory's narrowed eyes say back.

They don't need to speak.

Gregory's focus falls on Ms. Grayson. His eyes fill with fear. Ms. Grayson smiles at him.

Christophe's stomach clenches. Gregory must have already met his new teacher, Ms. Grayson, and if his experience with her was anything like Christophe's, then Gregory is very good at faking 'I'm-okay' mode.

Of course, Christophe already knows that.

"Well, well, well." Mr. White leans even further back in his chair and folds his hands in front of him. "Why don't you two have a seat?"

Christophe sits next to Gregory, and scoots his chair closer to him so their arms are almost brushing. Ms. Grayson frowns but sits anyway.

Mr. White leans forward and places his forearms on the table. "You two have received some punishment, I'm assured," he says. "I don't know if it was enough to convince you to not make the same mistake again."

Gregory shivers. Christophe stares at me. What the hell did they do to him that hadn't already been done to him before?

"Don't you remember what fun times you had before you left, Christophe?" Mr. White's gaze rests on him. "Would you like a repeat?"

Christophe clenches his fists but somehow keeps his mouth closed for approximately the first time in his life. He doesn't want to drown again.

"I'm sure you wouldn't want Gregory to experience that, either," Mr. White continues. "Of course, now Gregory knows all about your little friend with you in the Fridge."

"You told 'im?" he breathes out.

Gregory refuses to look at him.

"Not exactly. We showed him a tape of your final moments in there." Mr. White's voice goes high and condescending. "I must say, Christophe, you weren't exactly the most pleasant sight in the world. All covered in blood – most of it that Hellspawn's-"

"Shut up!" Christophe snarls. "Just shut eet! Right now!"

They all look at him.

"Christophe," Ms. Grayson says, "talking back isn't nice. And you know what we do with boys who aren't nice."

His shoulders slump.

"Apologize, Christophe."

. . . he _really _doesn't want to go back into the water again.

"Sorry," he mutters. Mr. White raises his eyebrows.

"I must say, I'm impressed, Rita. He's quite difficult to subdue, even for a little while."

"It was nothing, sir," she says, smiling.

They return their attention to the boys.

"And Gregory, I expected better of you." Mr. White starts to drum his fingers. "You always seemed so logical . . . so calculating . . . "

Gregory clenches his fists hard enough to turn the knuckles white. Christophe stares at his hands, then up at his face. He's biting his lip hard enough for it to bleed.

"You two care about each other, don't you?"

They're both silent.

"Don't you?" Mr. White's voice turns dangerous-soft.

"Yes," Gregory says.

"_Oui,"_ Christophe mutters.

"What about the other two? Chase and Maria? You care about them, surely."

Gregory shrugs, an answer that doesn't confirm anything. Christophe glares back at him.

"Ah, but you must care," Mr. White says, "or you wouldn't have come back for them."

They don't say anything.

"No? Well, then you wouldn't mind if we gave them some time in the Fridge together-"

"No!" Christophe and Gregory shout together.

Mr. White raises his eyebrows.

"Yes, we care about them," Gregory says finally, reluctantly.

"Good."

He leans back in his chair again, and he's full-on smiling now.

"You boys do know why we have been keeping you here, correct?"

"So you can fuck wiz our minds?" Christophe snaps. Gregory grips his wrists and gives him a _shut-up_ look.

"Close." Now Mr. White just looks amused. "You're servants of God. You will fight as the main warriors in our upcoming war. You will the strongest, the most powerful. You will turn the battle for us."

_That cocksucker_. It always comes back to him, doesn't it?

"You have no idea how many demons there are. You think you've fought monsters? You haven't seen the slightest of it, boys." His voice stays even as his eyes flash. "We will tolerate no more of this rebelliousness. It's time for you to learn your place."

XXX

Christohpe refuses to drink the purple liquid he knows will make him throw up. He puts his head on the table and buries his face in his arms.

His new teacher, Ms. Kingston, grabs him by his shorn hair and lifts his torso off the table. She snorts at his furtive attempts to snatch her hands away.

"Are you going to drink it or am I going to have to make you?"

"F-f-fuck you," Christophe gasps out.

She rolls her eyes and slams his head back down against the metal table. He cries out and she grabs his mouth, forcing it open. Then she grabs the cup in front of him and tips the liquid into his throat. It tastes like moldy oranges. His entire body rebels. He tries to spit it out but she slaps a hand over his mouth and nose.

"I _will _let you choke," she says.

He shakes his head but can't free himself. And eventually he has to swallow. It coats his throat in a thick, slimy layer on its way down.

She removes her hand and he immediately starts retching. His throat burns from all the times he threw up before. He tries to stick a finger down his throat but she grabs his hand and wrenches both arms behind his back.

"Nice try."

Ms. Kingston doesn't hide her torture behind cooing purrs the way Ms. Grayson does. In some ways, Christophe prefers her bluntness. In other ways, being told the truth fucking sucks.

"You _are _going to suffer hell for what you did," she informs him before handcuffing his hands behind his back again. He doesn't respond because his stomach has already started churning. He knows from experience that throwing up the contents of his stomach now won't make it any better. The liquid has already sunk into his bones.

She reaches into one of the deep pockets of her uniform and pulls out a metal collar. He stares at her. She holds him by his hair again, and he's out of energy, out of willpower, so he just lets her snap the collar around his neck. It locks into place.

"This is further insurance to make sure we won't have to deal with another escape attempt," Ms. Kingston says. "It's a tracker collar and a shock collar. We will not hesitate to use it."

And then, just to give him an example, she pulls a remote from her pocket and pushes a large black button.

Electricity slices through him. The pain swamps his senses and washes away any other sensation. He's burning, his entire body in flames, the agony eating through him.

And when he finally regains his senses, he's on the ground, cheek pressing against the metal floor.

"There. Quite painful. You want to feel that again? Probably not. So try to keep your mouth shut, Christophe, although from what I've heard of you that won't be an easy feat."

She picks him up and throws him over her shoulder. He lifts his head feebly as she takes him out of the metal room and down the long hallways of Yardale school. She carries his weight easily. His mind blurs as he processes them passing the dozens of white-door rooms.

He hates this place.

She takes him up the stairs. Now his stomach is protesting. The urge to vomit builds inside of him. Nausea makes his head spin along with the dull leftovers of electric shock.

They get out of the staircase on the seventh floor. She steers him over to his old bedroom. He bites his lip when she tosses him onto the bed and unlocks his handcuffs.

"You have lessons tomorrow at seven o clock. Someone will be up to fetch you. Please don't wander around." She gives him a sarcastic smile. "Enjoy your rest."

And then she leaves him.

He sits up and rubs his sore wrists. His stomach rebels at the slight movement. He swallows hard, although it doesn't matter, he'll be puking his guts in a couple hours anyways.

His fingers trace over the collar on his neck. His body still trembles from the shock. But he makes the conscious decision not to let them use it to intimidate him into shutting up.

Finally, he stares up at the ceiling, the way he did so many times just . . . what, two weeks ago? With the time in the Fridge then free than New York City then helping Jordan then staking out the Yardale School . . . probably less than two weeks.

So.

He's back here.

Home again.

Are Maria and Chase here?

He feels hope spring in him. It seems like forever since he's seen them, although it's only been a few days. Have the Yardale Angels healed up their wounds? He starts to rise off the bed.

Then he hears:

"Yeah, he's back. I saw the teacher lady dragging that fucker back just a couple minutes ago."

"We're taking 'im to Lilac's room, right?"

"Yeah."

"Let's grab him."

XXX

Christophe lurches to his feet but before he can grab any form of weapon the doors burst open and in shoots three of the other kids. Three of Jorge's gang: Lou, Xander, Jonas. He aims a punch for Jonas's nose. Lou snags his elbow as it flies past and throws him to the ground. He gasps out as Xander stamps a foot down on his stomach. Bile rises in his throat.

"What ze fuck are you doing?"

Before he can rise Xander produces a roll of duct tape and wraps shiny strips of gray around his wrists and ankles. He struggles as they drag him by his shoulders out of his room and down the hallway.

He screams at them in French. The meaning of his words is not lost on his captors, even if the literal translation goes over their heads.

"Someone shut this asshole up," Lou growls.

Xander sticks another strip of teeth over Christophe's lips, avoiding his teeth.

They toss him into Lilac's room. The skinny dark-haired girl huddles in the far corner and watches the proceedings with mirror-like eyes. He has never heard her speak.

The rest of Jorge's gang is already settled into her room. Jorge sits on the bed. Alec leans against the far wall. He's the tallest of all the kid by a couple inches, and he carries himself with his head arched back to show it off.

It only takes Christophe half a second to realize there are three other people tied up on the bedroom floor.

He wants to ask Gregory if he's okay, he wants to make sure Maria and Chase were healed up after their battle with the mutts and their subsequent capture, but all he can do is look them over. Gregory seems mostly the same as he did eight hours ago when Mr. White was threatening them. A little ruffled, a little dead inside.

"That's the last of Gregory's gang," Xander crows.

"Of course it is, retard," Jorge snaps. He hops off the bed. Christophe stares up at him and realizes the other boy is also wearing on the metal collars. A quick scan of the room reveals that everyone has one on.

Jorge stalks over to Gregory. "You're a real motherfucker, you know that?"

He kicks him in the ribs. Gregory closes his eyes. The tape prevents him from crying out or fighting back. Jorge gives a short laugh.

Christophe grits his teeth behind his tape.

"And there you are, dear _hermanita."_ Jorge stands over Maria, smirking. "The tied-up look is good for you."

Maria snarls something through her duct tape.

"Sorry, can't quite hear you, sis." He lifts his foot and smashes it down on her nose. Her eyes scrunch shut. She tries to scoot back but he grinds his foot down.

Her nose breaks. Blood starts gushing over her face. Her whole body shudders as she tries to breathe.

Christophe manages to scoot into a sitting position. He makes a lunge for Jorge, but the boy kicks him over. His head bangs against the wall.

When his eyesight returns Jorge has ripped the tape off Maria's mouth so she can breath. She curses at him in Spanish, and Christophe knows enough of the language for it to make him wince. Jorge's expression darkens.

"Someday you'll learn to shut your cunt," he growls, and punches her mouth. She cries out but he kicks her again. Her limp form falls over and she curls up, her breathing ragged.

Chase is sobbing, tears trickling down his face. The other five of Jorge's gang watch silently.

"Hey . . ._ hermano_ . . . " Maria gasps out.

"What?" He cocks his head.

"Mom and dad . . . always loved me . . . the most."

Jorge's fist jerks forward. He punches her mouth, her eyes, her shoulders. He kicks her ribs again and again. Christophe can't help the whimper that escapes his throat when he hears her ribs finally crack.

Maria screams, her voice shrill and cracking. And when Jorge stops punching her and orders her to take it back, she tells him to go fuck himself.

When Jorge's done, Maria's unconscious. Several teeth have fallen out of her mouth. He wipes his bloody fists off on his sweatpants and turns back to the other members of his crew.

"Get over here. I want to fuck her up real bad."

Xander starts to trot past Christophe. Christophe jerks out his legs and the other boy trips over him, sprawling to the ground. He jerks up, his face bright red with embarrassment and anger.

"You bastard!" he cries. "Jorge, forget your bitch of a sister, this motherfucker needs to learn some goddamn manners!"

He drags Christophe away from the wall.

Jorge's cheeks are flush with excitement. He stands over Christophe and rests a foot on his stomach.

"It's the four of you faggots' faults that we have to wear this fucking things," he informs Christophe. He taps his fingers against the metal collar around his neck. "Do you know how many times I'm been shocked with this in the past week? Too many damn times. And it's all your fault!"

He kicks Christophe's chin. Christophe's head jerks back. Pain blinds him for a few seconds. He blinks up at Jorge, trying to convey as much hatred as he can in just one look.

"Look at you." Jorge sneers. "You're pathetic."

He stamps down on Christophe's stomach, and Christophe can't control his nausea anymore. He throws up. Unfortunately, his mouth is still gagged. Most of the bile leaks back down his throat. He chokes and has to gag on his own vomit for a few seconds before he can breathe. Jorge's gang laughs as he struggles for air. Christophe can still feel the purple liquid mutating through his bones. The nausea stays in his stomach, and the urge to puke rises again.

In the end, Jorge's gang succeeds in "fucking them up." Even though the angels will patch them up later, every bruise Christophe receives hurts just as much.


	17. Interlude

**The last chapter was way too dark. (Throws fluff at readers). You'll get your real update soon enough. **

I wake up gasping, throwing the covers off of me. I hunch over, my eyes squeezed shut, the nightmare still flashing through me.

"Christophe?" Damien moans. He pushes himself up so he's sitting next to me. "S'up? You okay?"

"Fine," I say. "Just . . . bad dream."

So much bullshit has happened to me in the past ten years that all the horrible events of my life kind of blur together.

"'Tophe-" Damien reaches out and pulls me close to his bare chest. I shudder but don't pull away. He hesitates, and then proceeds to draw me close so we're sharing body heat.

"Be okay," he mutters.

"I am."

"Liar."

We're silent.

"Go back to sleep," I say.

I lie back down with my back to his chest. He keeps a grip on me.

"Night," he mutters. "Sweet dreams."

I laugh, hoarsely.

"Okay, fine. Don't dream at all."

"I will try."

He's warm. Warm enough for me to close my eyes and relax. His arm around me makes me feel caged in. But he's holding me. I don't know if anyone else has held me while I slept. I breathe deep.


	18. Chapter 18

**I wasn't going to update until after finals were over, but this amazing fanart someone drew for me inspired me to write the next chapter.**

**http:/apatur4iris**** (DOT) deviantart (DOT) com/#/d3i17ld**

**It made me SQUEE. Everyone, go check it out. **

**If you have fanart for this fic, then send me a link! I'd love to see it. **

**Enjoy the following chapter.**

Fear-sweat slicks down Stan's back. He stands in front of Kyle, which makes Kyle roll his eyes and move up to stand next to him. The soldiers with handcuffs approach them. Twenty feet away . . . ten . . .

He takes mental stock of the situation. Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny and him are vastly outnumbered by the soldier-angel-thingies. He's killed several before, but he's freaking exhausted now. He eyes the angels warily. He doesn't think they can fly. They have the impression of wings floating behind them and rather genderless features, but he's got a feeling they could do pretty much anything they wanted.

"We're screwed," he mutters.

"We can still kick their asses," Kyle snarls back.

"Give up," one of the soldiers growls, "and we won't hurt you."

"Uh, guys? Maybe we should listen to what he says," Cartman puts in from behind Stan.

"Are you freaking retarded, fatass? They're lying." Kyle doesn't turn his attention away from the soldiers.

"Yeah," Stan says, and to the soldiers he adds, "Fuck you."

"Fine then," the same soldier says, "we'll do this the hard way." And he lunges forward and tackles Stan.

Stan's back hits the grounds. Before he can react the soldier has his wrists behind his back. He sees other soldier-angels lunge for the others, and all he can do is shriek. The soldier-angel on top of him punches him in the face. His head snaps back each time, banging against payment.

When the soldier-angel rolls off him and hauls him up, he tries to make a run for it but it punches him in the face again. He falls to the ground. It kicks his ribs, viciously snarling, "if you won't be quiet like a good little spawn of Satan, then I'll just have to shut you up."

A kick explodes in his ribs. Pain shoots through his body. He squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can –

And then the pain stops.

He opens his eyes and around him is blue angel blood.

He sits up. His heart pounds in his chest. Everything smells like rotten oranges. Dozens of soldiers with black masks swarm the parking lot. Soldier-angels scream as the black-masked soldiers swamp them.

The parking lot and alleyway around him smell like copper.

Gunfire bursts from the machine guns on both sides; bullets fly off the walls and chip brick. Blood runs down his face from a cut on his cheek. His entire body is a mess of tiny wounds and bruises from his multiple battles. He scuttles back until he's crouched behind a car with enough bullet holes in it to pass off for Swiss cheese.

"KYLE!" he roars.

"Here," Kyle pants out next to him. Stan jumps then remembers his situation and hides behind the car again.

"Where the others?" he manages.

"Cartman's there." Kyle nods to a monster truck a dozen yards away. The fatass is half-crouched next to the far wheel. "And Kenny-"

They both peer over the car at the violence beyond them. One of the bodies littering the ground is Kenny's. Blood leaks from a bullet hole in his forehead.

"Oh my god, they killed Kenny," Kyle whispers.

"Bastards." Stan slumps back to the ground and closes his eyes. "Okay, what the hell is going on?"

"These guys came in and started killing these guys who were killing us."

"Woah, thanks, that's so informative."

"I don't have any more an idea than you, r-tard! I just know we have to get out of here!" Kyle's cheeks flush red. He leans forward and gets into Stan's face. "So, chillax!"

"_You_ chillax!"

"I'm not that one who's being constantly sarcastic-"

"And I'm not the one who's flipping out-"

"Both off you pussies shut the hell up!" Cartman yells from behind his car. "If I have to listen to any more of this melodrama I swear to god I'm going to shoot myself!"

Then they all realize the gunfire has stopped.

"Kids?" a man calls.

Stan stands up slowly. A few dozen feet away there stand a group of men and women, each with the black masks over their faces. They're splattered with blood and wild-eyed as they clean off their guns. They're the ones that saved them from the soldier-angels.

"See? I told you!" A woman lightly punches the man who spoke in ribs. "It's them!"

"Hell, Satan's gonna be happy about this." The man who spoke pulls off his mask, revealing a stubble-coated chin and a scarred-up cheek. He grins at the three of them in a manner that's probably supposed to be reassuring. "We thought the High Hellspawn kids got picked up by the filthy bastards a while ago."

"Who are you guys?" Kyle juts his chin up in the air. "Why'd you save us?"

The man slides his gun onto his back and then bows, deeply, for several seconds. When he looks up there's a smirk on his lips. "It's nice to meet you. I'm General Seaver Olvera, but you can call me Seaver. And we're just one small portion of Hell's army."

XXX

The handcuffs around my wrists rub red sores into my skin. I stand in silence while the soldier who directed me to this room whispers with Purple. _Oui_, I know she has a real name, but it's all angel-y and shit and I've already forgotten it. I wonder idly what Damien's doing. After a rather disastrous session with Mike learning absolutely nothing about magic, the soldiers dragged me off saying Purple wanted to talk with me, and another one escorted Damien off.

The room I've been dragged off to is about the size of a classroom. A window on the other side of the room reveals the woods beyond Yardale. The fluorescent lights cast dim shadows into the corners of the room. From my position hunched over near the door, I have to squint to make out the soldier and Purple. In the center of the room is a large table with maps spread out over it.

"Well, then." Purple claps the soldier on the back. "I'm sorry he gave you trouble and he'll pay for it."

The soldier glowers at me before he leaves the room.

"I deedn't give 'im trouble," I say.

"Christophe," she says, "you threatened to yank his brain out of his skull."

I shrug, although my restrained hands makes the motion hackneyed. "I deedn't want to be handcuffed."

She shakes her head. "Christophe, Christophe, Christophe, what are we going to do with you?"

I slouch back against the wall. I'm close enough to the door to be able to lunge out of it if need be. At least, I think I am. I eye Purple. "What do you mean?"

"We're worried about you, Christophe. Your allegiances have never been pure, but you've always fought for the 'good guys', even during the last ten years when you were out of our control."

"Eef zis ees about last night, zen zis ees bullsheet. I deed what I 'ad to do to get out of zat situation. Eef you deedn't want zem to die, zen you shouldn't 'ave let zem do zat to me."

"You didn't _have_ to kill them."

"Zey were monsters. Zey deserved to die." I hunch my shoulders to keep from trembling. My hair falls in my face but I continue to glare at her.

"You don't have the right to make that call."

"_You_ want me to kill people."

We both stare at each other in silence for several seconds.

"You want me to go out on zat battlefield-" I jerk my head at the maps on the table, "And take my shovel, or my sword, or whatever ze 'ell you are going to give me, and you want me to bash 'eads een."

She purses her lips.

"I don't 'ave ze right to make zat call? Bullsheet. You want me to kill people. You just want me to act like a good leetle lapdog and kill whom you tell me to. So don't act like I 'ave fallen from grace, because I am no angel and I 'ave never pretended to be and you 'ave never believed me to be one. Ze only difference between you and me ees zat I kill people who actually threaten me instead of people who _might_ someday threaten me." I roll my shoulders and straighten, the smirk on my lips daring her to fight back.

"The hellpsawn do threaten us, Christophe," she says. "They kill thousands."

"So kill zem. But don't kill innocents who might zreaten you. Like Emma."

"Who's she?"

And I realize I'm the only one who cares.

My words come out through clenched teeth. "Eet doesn't matter. All zat matters ees zat you get zis zrough your skull: I am not a 'ero you can yank around by 'is chain zrough some warped sense of morality, because I 'ave none. You cannot make me bend. You might 'ave me right now, but I will free myself and zen you will feel my shovel bashing down against your 'ead."

I relax back against the wall and let my eyes slip half-shut, the picture of confidence.

"You won't bring yourself down for anyone," she says. "Not even those you care for – Maria Martinez. Chase Williamson. Gregory Thorne. And the antichrist."

"I do not care about Gregory," I snap back, bristling. "And I'm not ze 'ero. I'm much more of a villain. Still not as bad you, zough. You angels who make children fight demons and kill ozzere children. You with your fake wings." I nod at her wings, which are just the vaguest dreams of feathers ghosting along her back, only visible if one looks at it in the bright light. "Why am I 'ere? What are you trying to get out of zis?"

She smiles to herself as if there's something I don't know. "Why, we're having a meeting in a few minutes, Christophe, and you might find it quite interesting."

"What kind of meeting?" My voice stays low and guarded.

She winks at me. "Stick around and you'll see."

Bitch. Not like I have a choice. She could just have soldiers drag me back in if I try to leave. Part of me wants to stamp out and flip her out on my way, the soldiers be damned. Another part of me wants to see what the hell she wants.

I slump into a corner and keep my shoulders up. I refuse to speak any more, even when Purple starts making casual, twittering jibes at morality as she shuffles around with the maps on the table. People start to filter into the room; angels with ambiguous gender and half-real wings, muttering amongst themselves. Some of them are of the main six; most of them are unfamiliar to me. They give me suspicious looks before joining Purple at the maps.

When the clock above the door marks one o clock, Purple clears her throat and the other angels grow silent.

"Good. You all know why we are gathered here today. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

She turns her attention to the TV next to the window and flicks it on with the remote. It takes me a second to realize it's not just a TV, it has a sort of web-cam thing set up with technology I'm nowhere near familiar with. Several soldiers peer through the other end. The lead one is a male-ish-looking angel with a weathered face.

"General Light." She dips her head in greeting. I smirk to myself. Dear god, that has to be the most ridiculous name ever for an agent of heaven. Could they get any more obvious?

"Esalen." He doesn't betray any emotion.

"How has the conquest been going? Has South Park been showing too much resistance?"

The camera shifts as one of the soldiers move it. We're treated to the sight of rubble. Soldiers are clearing away bodies. Smoke drifts over the surroundings. Purple looks back at me and I plaster a scowl onto my face.

"Have you captured the High Hellspawn?"

General Light hesitates. Purple crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows.

"Hell's army has finally started to organize," he admits.

The angels murmur amongst themselves. Purple's arms slip to her sides.

"What?" she demands.

"We suspected, but we thought they were just still a mass of unorganized demons randomly terrorizing. But they're not, Satan must be organizing them, and they interrupted us when we were just about to capture the High Hellspawn."

"But the information Grayson managed to get from the Hellspawn in our captivity is correct. There are High Hellspawn in South Park."

"_Were._ The army left to regroup and they have the four of them. We're tracking them down as we speak. Our faction is going to battle theirs. It's only a matter of time." He hesitates again. "Esalen . . . the great war is soon. Not now, but soon."

The angels are silent.

I let out a loud groan. "You 'ave got to be sheeting me. You steel 'aven't gotten over yourselves?"

They all stare at me.

"Surely you could do zese zings called 'negotiations' wiz Satan. 'E ees kind of a pussy when eet comes down to eet. Trust me, I 'ave met 'im. Instead, you're going to rush 'eadfirst into zis war and get zousands of people killed just so you can feel better about yourselves."

Purple raises her eyebrows. "Ah. So you side with Satan, then?"

. . . so this was her point all along. To find hard, logical proof that I've completely turned to the dark side.

"I zought I 'ad already cleared my name when I was eight. La Resistance. Zat was ze whole point of zat, _oui?"_

"That was to make sure you were still capable of judging the difference between good and evil. After the cannibalism, we couldn't be sure." She narrows her eyes. "With these new insurgencies with the marriage to antichrist, we're not sure you're worth keeping alive, Christophe. It's an awful lot of trouble to make a new High Heavenfilth, but if you're going to have a negative impact on us then there's really no point."

The angels murmur amongst themselves. General Light coughs.

"So you are going to kill me?" I raise my eyebrows, even though my stomach churns. My hands are still locked behind my back, but I can kick pretty well and I think Purple has the key-"

"We might have to. Today you've made it amply clear that you won't let anyone change your mind, not even the threat of death of your friends. The antichrist's influence has clearly had a negative affect on you. You're completely antagonistic. You're going to hell."

I snort. "I 'ave already been zere and eet ees not so bad."

"Very well then. We will need to have you executed immediately." Her eyes smile, and I think she's bullshitting until the soldiers poke their heads into the room and one of them grabs my arm and I realize I'm so close to death I can almost taste it.

"Interesting."

It feels kind of good, being this close to the edge.

"Also, after you're done blowing his head off, make sure to take the antichrist down to his cell again. And dismember him, we don't want him getting any romantic revenge ideas."

I grit my teeth. _They're not going to kill him, they can't kill him, he's too valuable-_

"Also, inform Maria Martinez and Chase Williamson of the update mission assignments I'm going to send them. If we're going to kill him, they'll need to take his position fighting demons."

_It's not like I was useful anyways, I can't even use magic, I don't even have that many missions-_

"Can I play the girl?" the soldier holding me asks.

"Don't be too rough," Purple says, smirking.

_She's just trying to get me to cave, but she can't break me, she never will, Maria and Chase make their own choices-_

"Should we inform Gregory of your terminative decision, or is it not within his boundaries to know?"

"He won't question my authority. You may inform him." She starts to turn her attention back to General Light on the TV screen, who has watched the exchange with wry amusement.

My blood roars in my ears.

"Go a'ead and kill me." The mole shrugs his shoulders, a wry smirk on his face. "I am not of 'ell and so eet will not gain you anyzing."

"You just admitted to siding with the antichrist." But Purple's smiling, smiling now that she's gotten a fucking response out of him.

"_Oui_. But Damien ees not on 'ell's side eizer, eef you can believe eet. 'E's on 'is own side. Radical concept, _oui_?" He lets out a rough laugh. "And while I razzure like pissing you ass'oles off, I do no want to die, so I am telling you zis: I will not fight for 'ell. I do not want to fight at all, but I would razzure fight for 'eaven zan fight for 'ell because I really do not want to die."

Purple smiles. "Very well, then." She turns back to General Light. "Hold your attack on the Hellspawn army; we're going to try some negotiations."

XXX

"Christophe! Hey, Christophe! What the hell's going on?"

The mole shrugs and continues to follow the soldiers down the long hallways into the basement below the Yardale schools. Damien scrambles after him, his own hands handcuffed behind his back, a scowl on his lips.

"Dude," he snaps, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Quiet," the mole says, "and do what zey say, and zey weel not 'arm us."

Damien's eyes narrow. "Hey. Christophe. Snap out of it. What happened to the coldhearted bastard who'd burn a house down around him just so he wouldn't be captured?"

"Maybe I just do not want to die."

They walk in silence for a few seconds. The dark halls envelop them. The soldiers prod them along when they move too slowly.

"You're letting that English bastard get to you, aren't you?" Damien asks. "All the shit he says about who you used to be. Ignore him, you're not who he thinks you are-"

"Maybe I am not," the mole growls, "but why ees zat a good zing? 'Ave you ever considered ze fact zat ze only reason you are not 'aving ze sheet tortured out of you ees because zey want to appease me? What eef zey kill me, eh? Zey will rip you to shreds and send your 'eart to your fazzer as un invitation for war!" His fists tighten behind his back.

Damien raises his eyebrows. He jogs to walk next to the mole. "Are you saying . . . you care about me enough to sacrifice your own freedom?"

"Do not be ridiculous," he snaps. "I do not care about anyone zat much. I do not care what 'appens to Maria and Chase and zat fucking British fag and I do not care about what 'appens to you."

"Then why are you doing what they're telling you?"

The mole punches the wall hard enough to crack the wood. He leans against the wall, his shoulders shaking, biting back the urge to cry, chewing his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"I am not a 'ero," he says, "I. Don't. Care."

The soldiers stop and watch the scene with vague amusement.

Damien pulls his arms around him and the mole doesn't push him away.

"It's okay to care about other people, you know."

"No," I mutter, burying my face into his shoulder, feeling weak and emasculated. "No, eet's not."

"Don't be stupid. It means you're still human."

"Zey are going to hurt everyone I care about," I say, "unless I go along wiz zeir bullsheet."

"Learn to bend," he whispers into my ear. "I swear to that fucking asshole of a God, we are going to get out of this place and we are going to show them hell and we will rip their fucking spines out of their backs and strangle them with their own intestines, got it? But until then we have to play meek and jump when told to. It's not being weak, it's not giving in, it's biding your time. Just follow my lead. Got it?"

I nod, squeeze my eyes shut, and push myself away from him. The soldiers start to push us onwards again.

"Oh, by ze way," I add after about twenty more seconds of walking, "we're going to say 'ello to your fazzer."

XXX

They take the cuffs off me and let me slouch in the corner. My fingers tap against my thighs. I wish for my shovel. Damien stands close enough for our shoulders to brush. After a few minutes I remember the masquerade we're supposed to be keeping up. Although it's a bit more than I'm comfortable with, I pull my arm around his waist and hug his body next to mine.

I know Damien knows it's fake. His eyes still shine with relief. He buries his forehead into my shoulder, slumping against me.

"'Ow long 'as eet been since you 'ave seen 'im?" I whisper into his ear.

"Not since he sent me up to the surface to learn some maturity," he whispers back. "So, like, a year, maybe a bit more. I've spoken with him on the phone a couple times, but that's it. I don't think he even knows how tall I am."

I bite my lip and fall silent.

We're in a giant boiler room below Yardale. Pipes snake along the ceiling. There's a huge furnace in the far corner. It's warm enough to draw sweat to my face, and Damien's body heat doesn't help. Angels cast spells in a circle, their hands raised and their mouths open in recitation. The Yardale School is warded to make sure none of the hell-allied variety can enter unless they've been 'allowed'. They don't want to allow Satan in, so the angels are making it so Satan can be here metaphysically. Sort of like a web cam, but cooler and more magical and complicated.

"You doing okay?" Damien whispers, his voice cracking at the end.

"About what- " I wince at the thought of my mental breakdown earlier. "I am fine, really."

"You're not just saying that not to worry me, are you?"

I snort.

His brows furrow. Doubtless, he takes my reaction as confirmation.

"I weel be okay. Eet ees you I am worried about." I have to force myself to admit it. "You are not going to freak out on me, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous." His smile is so fake it makes me wince.

"All right!"

We look to see the angels stepping back away from their little circle. Symbols float in midair, throwing off glowing yellow light.

"This should work," one of them mutters to another.

I roll my eyes. Again, I see no problem with webcams. I guess if you feel the need to be overly dramatic, go ahead.

They start muttering amongst themselves. The reek of rotten oranges swamps the room. My eyes water, but there's an odd quality about the taste that draws me to it. Damien, however, looks like he's about to throw up. He coughs and makes a gagging noise. After a few seconds, the scent fades to a tolerable level.

After a few seconds a red blob in the center of the circle starts to shimmer. I want to wrap my arms around my chest and crawl into a little corner. My instincts crawl at the approach of the . . . whatever it is. The angels murmur and I can tell from the way they shift and glance at each other that they're feeling just as freaked as me.

Damien closes his eyes and smiles again, this time for real.

The blob of shimmery light morphs and becomes solid. A huge man stands in its place. A horned demon with red skin and bulging muscles. He towers above us.

I last saw Satan when I was thirteen during a particularly weird mission retrieving a lost soul. He was in the middle of his most recent breakup. I remember him sobbing and giving the soul up without debate when I asked for it.

Right now with his arms crossed and seething smoke, he makes my skin crawl. With my free hand, I pull out the cigarettes I bummed from one of the angels after they dragged us down to the boiler room. Damien narrows his eyes at the cigarettes. Sweat beads on his forehead. After a few seconds flames burst on the ends of the cigarettes. I stick one in his mouth and take a drag on my own.

We watch Satan for a few moments in silence, smoking our cigarettes and eyeing the angels.

Satan glances around the room. He's about fifty feet from us. His yellow eyes light up when his gaze lands on Damien.

"Son!" he says.

Damien acknowledges him with a nod of his head.

"Why are you with the angels? I thought I told you to get a job!"

Damien grits his teeth. I stare at his father for several seconds before I realize he's serious.

"I've been on earth for a couple years, dad," he says. "Some stuff happened. Like, I got captured and got the shit tortured out of me for several days straight. Oh, and I got married."

"What?" Satan stares at his son for a few seconds. "Who is she?"

Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe he missed out on whole "_I was captured by angels_" part of the speech. Have I mentioned that my arm is around Damien's waist as this moment?

"Dad. It's Christophe. This guy right here."

Satan focuses on me. My insides curl under his gaze. I suck on my cigarette.

"Oh, you," he says.

At least he remembers me.

"Nice to see you again, cocksucker." I blow out smoke.

"He's a heavenfilth!" Satan says. "Damien, you _know _we're going to have to annihilate them all when the war starts. How long have you know this guy?"

"A while." Damien drops his cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with the heel of his bare left foot.

"Is he that French heaven-allied bastard no one liked from a while ago? I can't remember his name-"

"Yeah, that's him." Damien still doesn't meet his father's gaze.

French heaven-allied bastard no one liked - "_You dated Pip_?" I whisper to him.

"Oh, fuck, _no, _dad's just kind of stupid," he whispers back.

Purple coughs. Satan looks down at her.

"Oh, right," he says. "Why is my son with a bunch of angels? Why'd I get a letter from heaven saying you want to negotiate with me? How long has he been here, anyway?"

"About a week," she says, "and we've been doing some quite unpleasant things to him, and we're willing to keep doing those things unless you agree to our demands."

He looks down at her. Steam puffs out his nose. Purple raises an eyebrow.

"What do you want?"

"We want you to surrender the war," she says. "Our troops vastly outnumber yours. We'll only end up killing all of your low Hellspawn, anyways. Surrender under God's rule again, let Him imprison you, and we'll let your son live."

"My troops aren't going to loose," he whines out.

"We already have one of the High Hellspawn you manufactured in the South Park area. The others are being hunted down as we speak."

"You're not going to catch them!" he says. "Wait, you already have one of them?"

"Oh, god." Damien buries his head in his hands.

Purple coughs again. "Surrender, Satan. Surrender or you will suffer the consequences."

He strokes his goatee. "I don't think I've ever actually heard someone say that out loud." His gaze travels over her again. "Who are you, anyway? One of God's lackeys? Someone I can't remember. But then again, it's been a long time since I hung with you assholes."

He looks back at Damien and me. "It doesn't look like your side is doing too much better. One of them's already deflected."

_Damn it, why do people keep making assumptions about my alliances? _

"Christophe is under our control-"

"No, I'm not, _beetch_," I mutter without enthusiasm.

She ignores me. "And regardless of how many High Heavenfilth we possess, the fact remains that your troops are vastly outnumbered. You can't maintain a physical form here and we have your son restricted. We are willing to kill him to make our point."

My grip tightens around Damien. He glances down at my hand, then up at me.

Satan scowls at Damien. "You got yourself into this, son, you get yourself out of it." He waves his hands to the angels. "And tell God I'm going to win this war! So there!"

He disappears, leaving only the heat of the boiler room and the reek of copper.

XXX

On nights like tonight, Gregory feels like his entire core is cracking, like he's going to split open and break apart and it will change nothing.

Sweat coats his skin. He tips his head back, nose pointed up at the low ceiling, and closes his eyes. His heart still pounds in his chest. He hates himself a little bit.

Oh, and he doesn't fall apart because it's only a feeling and not real.

What's real is Grayson next to him, wearing her unbuttoned uniform jacket, her hair sticky to her scalp from perspiration. She's beautiful, he supposes, but he can't bring himself to think of her as such. She's sweaty like him and panting just as hard.

The sheets tangle around their legs. Gregory pulls them up to his waist.

"Gregory, love," she purrs out, her hand resting on his chest, her long, painted nails breezing over his skin.

He expects her to say something else, but she's quiet, basking, probably. He wishes she would leave. This is supposed to be his own damn bedroom where he's supposed to get his own damn sleep.

He doesn't take magic lessons from her anymore, as he mastered most of basics by age twelve, but she still is his 'overseer' and is essentially in charge of him. So, no, he can't tell her to leave, he can't tell her to move her fingers, he can't tell her to stop ripping him apart. (And the last one is a stupid metaphor, anyway).

"Christophe hasn't changed," she says after a few minutes.

Gregory stiffens (_she's wrong_) but doesn't correct her.

"You won't end up like him, will you?" she murmurs. "You'll be the perfect agent of heaven forever."

The fingernails against his skin demand an answer.

He opens his eyes to find her dark green eyes boring into him.

"I serve God," he says. "I'm not a monster. I will never be like him."

"Good."

She rolls over so she's straddling his waist, her bare thighs pressing against his skin.

"You're so beautiful," she murmurs. "I knew you'd grow up to be perfect. And you are. God's chosen one. Perfect forever."

She leans down and her lips brush against his cheek.

"Thank you," he says.

Sometimes he wishes it weren't a metaphor.

If he started to fall apart, his brain would the last left. His brain that keeps informing him of the logic of staying here, of just letting the Yardale school fuck him over – quite literally – because it's safest.

He lets the logic burn into him and become part of the blueprints of his mind (_stay with Yardale, stay safe_). And eventually, he can punch down the hope and need and empty sensation in his lung that makes him feel like he's starving for air no matter how hard he pants.

XXX

We're on the ground floor after the meeting with Satan. It's late enough at night/ early enough in the morning for us to be the only ones up. A soldier trails us through the floor, but otherwise we're alone.

I don't voice my concerns to Damien. He already knows that without guarantee of his father's cooperation, there's very little chance of him getting out of here alive. His hours are numbered. At any second Yardale will decide he's more trouble than he's worth.

Frankly, the only reason he's still breathing is because of . . . me.

And so I don't bitch out the soldier when he pats me down to make sure I don't have any weapons on me. I don't flip off the video cameras as we pass through every room. I don't curse at a random maid or someone I see who pisses me off. I just follow Damien through the ground floor until we come upon the tiny library.

The soldier stands at the door, leaving us to our own devices within the room. He walks through the aisles, fingers tracing over the books' spines.

"Are you all right?" I ask after a minute of silence.

He turns back to look at me. "Oh, yeah. Totally fine."

"Liar." I move up to stand less than a foot away from him. The gloom makes it difficult for me to see his expression, although I catch the hard outline of his face and the way his black hair falls into his face. One side of his hair is still shorter than the other from the last time they tortured him, but it's growing out abnormally fast and I can barely tell. I don't know why I focus on this detail. It somehow seems easier than the glint in his eyes.

"Your dad ees a cocksucker," I tell him.

"So am I," he points out.

"You know what I mean."

He shrugs.

We're silent for a few seconds, staring at the bookshelf in front of us. We're in the 800s section of the library. It's full of autobiographies on angels no one cares about. It smells like age and experience in here, like dust and musk and crinkled paper.

And I'm about to yell at him, to criticize him for never trusting me even though he keeps telling me to do the same, when he speaks.

"Pip," he says.

"What about 'im?"

"I guess he's pretty much the only person who's ever showed affection to me because he wasn't . . . supposed to. When I lived down in Hell I was the prince of my dad's court. Everyone loved me and fawned over me. And they only did it because they wanted to get in my dad's favor."

"And, like, my dad is an asshole and he thinks I need to be mature and save myself. Even though he knows, he freaking knows- " and now I see the panic in Damien's eyes and hear the strain in his voice – "he knows they're going to kill me if they can't find a use for me. I don't know if they even have one any more."

"Zey-" I say, and then I stop.

"And I never had any friends in hell, just kids whose parents told to be nice to me. And all the guys and girls I've slept with only wanted a one-night fuck."

"But when I went up to Earth, and I met Pip. Oh, god, even him being what he is he still smiled to me and tried to be my friend, even though I was a total dick to him. He's the only one who's ever actually cared."

"Zat's not true," I say, "and you know eet."

He looks at me, his eyes a dark red. I look back at him. Standing this close to him, I can feel his body heat. He still smells like copper, but I'm so used to the scent by now it's almost comforting.

"Hey, Christophe," he says.

"_Oui_?"

"Can we play some videogames?"

XXX

There's a recreation room intended for the soldiers' use in the far corner of the ground floor. They have a giant TV, some sound systems and speakers, and an Xbox 360. It's almost two in the morning and my eyes ache from exhaustion, but I help Damien pile blankets on the couch. We hook up _Call of Duty: World at War _and dive into our cocoon of blankets.

I've only played the game on my PC before, and so it takes me ages to get used to the controllers. Damien's even worse than me; he keeps making noob mistakes, like hitting the wrong button twenty times in a row and demanding to know why it's not working.

We both groan after the Nazi Zombies kill us for the eighth time in a row, and while we're waiting for the new round to load, he says, "I really, really don't want to die."

I look at him. I can see him clearly now, the glow of the TV screen illuminating his face. His teeth are clenched. He avoids my gaze. The scars on his face have always perked my interest; he has enough of them to decorate an army, although I'm sure the angels donated the majority.

I look at him, and I see an all-powerful antichrist with supernatural abilities, and I see a teenager whose father told him to save himself, and I see the boy who carried me from the blood-splattered stairwell last night, and I see Emma, _I see Emma_, I see Emma and she's begging to see the sun.

"I weel not let you die." I pick up my controller and start shooting. He doesn't, and his character's gone in seconds.

"Okay," he says.

My character dies soon after and I decide this game is stupid and put in a James Bond shoot-em-up. I curl up on the couch again after I manage to get the game to start. My knee is inches from his, separated only by a mass of blankets.

"You know something funny?"

"What?"

"I've never played video games before."

It's really not funny at all, but I smile tentively at him anyway. "You 'ave been 'orribly deprived. We shall 'ave to remedy zat." I lean against him, my shoulder against his. "Prepare for an epic all-nighter of crappy first-person-shooters."

"Sweet."


	19. Chapter 19

So, late update (again). Now that school's out I'll be posting VERY frequently. I've been nervous about this chapter. You might have noticed I moved the rating up to M. (If you don't have this story on story alert, I really hope you can find it). It gets bloody. Really, really, really bloody. On a much more positive note, I figured out how to do the line breaky-thing.

Music I listened to:

"This is How We Disappear" (MCR)

"Feeling Good" (Bliss)

"Until We Wake" (JennaAnne)

* * *

Ms. Kingston's words make Christophe so bored he has to struggle not to drift off. Seriously, who cares about a goddamned "rope" or whatever the hell she's talking about?

He's sitting up with his knees hugged to his chest, watching her speak. She's come to his bedroom to "teach" him. His old teacher always made him go down to the main hall.

In just an hour, lessons will be over, and then he'll have some free time until he has to go to whatever hell they've cooked up for training. These past few months, "free time" consists of hiding wherever he can in an effort not to get the shit beaten out of him.

"Christophe, are you listening?" Ms. Kingston asks with a sigh.

"_Oui_," he says.

"What's the rope I've been talking about for?"

"Er . . . magic." He can't hold back the cynicism in his words. Magic. What was next, fucking broomsticks? Sure, he's spoken with God before, told him to fuck off, but that's different.

"Well, then, look for it."

He fails to find this rope, and he's dragged off to a group lesson with the other children.

In the last few months they've learned that they're going to become these things called "high heavenfith" or something, but they're not yet, and they can only become them if they keep eating god's soul. They learn that Hell is evil and they have to kill every hell-allied monster they say. When Christophe asks about the Low Hellspawn, he's told, yes, even the Low Hellspawn. It doesn't matter that they appear human, they're monsters, pure evil.

They learn that Low Heavenfilth gain their powers from eating the flesh and heart of others. They learn that in the future they will have to kill hundreds of monsters. They learn that it's all right if they have to kill lots and lots, because they're the good guys and it's all right to kill if they're the good guys.

They learn and they learn and Christophe wonders how much of it is real, but then he decides it doesn't matter and listens to the teacher with numb indifference.

Halfway through the lesson, Jorge calls the teacher a bitch when she tells him to be quiet. She shocks him long enough for him to curl up into a ball for a rest of the lesson. Christophe's skin crawls. Tonight is going to suck.

When the magic lessons end, Christophe eats in the cafeteria with Gregory, Maria and Chase. They choose a table far in the corner. Jorge's gang eats on the other side of the room. They talk and laugh.

Gregory's gang doesn't talk much. They chew on their food. Christophe rubs a bruise on his right arm and wishes the angels would patch him up again. Turns out they'll only bother to heal it if it's going to leave him useless, which is probably why they left the right side of his face screwed up. He's so used to seeing out of one eye he doesn't even notice it anymore.

"We have to find somewhere to hide," Gregory says as he puts his fork and knife down.

The other three nod. Jorge getting shocked means he'll be pissed all day, which means he'll set his gang after them for kicks.

"Maybe one of the soldiers will let us go outside," Chase says.

"No," Gregory mutters. "They think we're playing. Just kids playing. Either that or they think it's funny when we beat each other up." He glances at Jorge's gang. They appear to have finished eating their food and are pushing their plates away. "All right. We'll split into two groups. Me with Maria and Christophe with Chase."

"No," Christophe says.

Gregory narrows his eyes.

"I'll go wiz Maria."

Maria grits her teeth. "Why do you think it's a good idea to split up at all?"

They all know the answer. It's because Jorge will throw everything he can into beating the shit out of his sister.

They could make her go off on her own and the other three wouldn't be hurt, but then she would be the victim of five pissed-off, violent seven-year-olds.

"Protect Chase," Christophe says.

Gregory massages his temples. They all know Christophe's the fighter and Gregory's the tactical support.

"I will be all right."

"We're sticking together," Maria says.

"No, we're not," Christophe snaps. "Not eef you want everyone else to be 'urt because of you."

Her eyes widen and she shrinks back and he knows he's gone too far.

Jorge's gang stands up and starts to saunter across the cafeteria towards them.

"Go," Gregory says, and Christophe grabs Maria's hand and drags her for the door.

He sees Lilac and Jonas go after Gregory and Chase. He briefly takes comfort in the fact that they'll probably be fine, as Lilac is not much of a fighter. Then the other four tear after him and Maria, and the chase is on.

They sprint through the hallways, bare feet pounding on the carpets. His instincts tell him to go downhill, but he knows he won't be able to go out the doors and he'll have an advantage on the roof.

So they race up the stairs.

Xander, Lou, Alec and Jorge sprint after them, their faces masks of misaimed fury.

Maria pants but keeps her fingers clenched with his. She flips off her brother as they twist up the stairs.

"Don't . . . piss 'im off . . . any more zan 'e already ees . . . " Christophe mutters.

"Like you're one to talk."

"True."

They smile at each other, and then they reach the end of the staircase. The door leading to roof access looms in front of them. Maria grabs the knob and twists it, but it's locked.

"Fuck," she says.

Jorge's gang crashes into him. Xander knocks him on his back and pins him down. Christophe might be strong front months of training, but Xander's been going through the same training. A fist smashes into Christophe's nose. It breaks. Another fist pummels into his eye.

He bucks and manages to throw Xander off him. Before he can lunge to his feet he sees Lou yank a rock from his pocket and hold it up. He doesn't even have time to react before the other boy smashes it down on his head.

When he wakes up his hands are duct-taped behind his back. Strips of tape stick him to the wall. Tape over his mouth. When he tries to scream only muffled squeaks come out.

Maria is on the ground, her own limbs taped up, her eyes wide and her mouth gagged. Her sweatpants are yanked down around her ankles. Jorge holds a knife. The other little boys gather around her, giggling in anticipation.

Christophe shrieks behind the tape and kicks out, but he can't reach, can't do anything as he watches as Jorge slides the knife into a place knives were never meant to go.

Maria's sobbing now, her face red and puffy. She twists her shoulders but Jorge's gang holds her down. Blood runs down her legs. She locks gazes with Christophe and she's begging him to help her, and he can't, he can't do anything as Jorge twists away at her insides with his knife.

Footsteps pound up the stairs. Soldiers yank the Jorge off his sister. One of them starts to haul her off down the stairs. Electricity zaps through the four of Jorge's gang. They scream until the soldier holding the remote clicks the button off a good two minutes later.

A soldier rips the duct tape off Christophe's mouth. He doesn't realize he's been screaming the whole time, and only the soldier's "shush, shush, it's okay, it's okay," makes him quiet down.

"Monster!" Christophe screams out. Jorge has recovered from his electrical shock and is looking up at him with a smirk of defiance in his eyes. "You monster!"

He tries to lunge for him but the tape around his body restrains him. The same soldier tears it off and picks him up and doesn't let him shred Jorge.

"Shhh, shh, it's okay, it's okay." The soldier's tight arms fold around him. He stops screaming eventually, even though the sounds of his own cries keep echoing through his ears.

* * *

Later that night at about two in the morning, there's a knock on his door. He's been staring up at the ceiling, trying to sleep and failing miserably. The four of them stopped sleeping in the same room after their recapture (no reason why, they just stopped) and so he's alone.

He opens the door. Maria stands outside. She looks healthy and new.

"Angels 'ealed you," he says.

"Yeah."

"Deed you tell Gregory what zey deed?" He refused to say anything to the blond boy when he asked.

"No." She shakes her head to emphasize. "I – I don't want to worry him."

"'E's already worrying."

"I don't want to worry him more than he already is."

Christophe nods.

They stare at each other. She has about four inches in height on him now. Growth spurts have made her hands and feet disproportionate with the rest of her body. She's skinny, gangly, almost frail-looking.

"Are you all right?" he asks after a few seconds.

"No."

He nods. He expected as much.

"Your brother is –"

"Yeah." She doesn't meet his gaze. She clenches her fists and mutters; "I should have killed him long ago."

"Ze Yardale School will kill us eef we kill 'im."

"I know," she spits out.

"I still want to kill 'im a zousand time over."

She nods. "Me too."

Then, "The only reason they stopped him was because he had a knife and he wasn't supposed to. If he'd gotten permission to take it from the cafeteria first, they would have let him do whatever he wanted until he killed me."

"I would 'ave stopped 'im," he says. "And zey don't want you to die."

She shrugs, half-helpless. "He used to be . . . not _nice._ Never nice. But he would walk to school with me and the one time a pack of dogs chased me down for my lunch, he protected me from them with a crowbar and saved my life. I didn't use to be just another bitch to him. I used to be his sister."

He doesn't know what to say.

"I am still going to kill him," she says. "I don't care what the Yardale school says. I am going to fucking kill him."

It's dark enough for him to take several moments to notice the water sliding down her cheeks.

"Do you need a 'ug?" he asks.

She glowers at him. "No," she snaps, voice thick, and turns to stomp off.

He grabs her around the waist and hugs her. She stills against him for a few seconds and sighs. Then she turns and hugs him back.

* * *

He can't help it. That night, he pulls his knees up to his chest and burrows into his covers. Tears leak from his one good eye. He cries for his mama. He hasn't cried for her in a long time. He can't remember her name anymore. He can't remember the color of her eyes.

* * *

"We 'ave to escape," Christophe says as he slides his tray down on the table.

Gregory looks up with his scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth. His expression goes blank.

They haven't spoken of escape since they were recaptured.

Chase and Maria glance at the two of them and decide to stay out of the conversation.

"Any ideas?" Christophe continues.

"We're not escaping." Gregory puts his fork down.

Christophe narrows his eyes. "Ah, so you like eet 'ere?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Gregory snaps back. Then, much quieter, he says, "It's not all bad here."

"What?" he snarls.

"We're going to help people. You know that. We'll be on the right side of the war."

Christophe stares at him. Then finally he says, "you 'ave let zem get to you."

"No, I haven't." He clenches his fists. "I'm just tired of fighting."

"So you're weak."

"No, Christophe, I know when to give up. We're not getting out of here any time soon. Maybe in the future, maybe. But even then, what's the point? We don't have a future outside these walls."

Chase and Maria are watching them with wide eyes.

"Ze point?" Christophe leans forward in his chair. "Ze point ees our freedom, zat ees ze point. And we cannot survive 'ere much longer, not wiz zose cocksucking mozzerfucking asshole faggots of Jorge's gang 'ere wiz us. Eef ze school will not do anyzing about zem, zen we will 'ave to."

"They're part of the army, too, Christophe," Gregory says.

He really stares at him now. Then finally, he says, "You 'ave been listening to zat Grayson woman again."

"She's my teacher. I'm supposed to listen to her."

"She ees fucking insane. She actually believes ze bullsheet she spews. None of ze ozzer low 'Eavenfilth actually believe eet."

"It's not all insane," Gregory growls back, then stops. The other three are staring at him.

He puts his head on the table, into his arms. "I don't know what to do," he says.

Christophe waits for a few seconds. Then he says, "I need a plan."

"I don't have one."

* * *

Gregory comes to him in the middle of the night, and tells him his plan. Christophe calls him sick and tries to punch him, and Gregory stops his attack and says it's the only way he can think of to deal with all their problems in one blows.

"I won't do eet," Christophe says.

"Agreed. It's fucking mad. But you asked for a plan, and this is what I have. Don't do it, Christophe, don't do it unless you're sure."

"_You're fucked-up_."

"I am."

They stare at each other for several long seconds. The moonlight filters in through Christophe's window and sends beams of light spiraling over their faces.

"Get out of my room," Christophe says.

Gregory leaves.

* * *

He's not going to do it. He's not. He would never stoop that low.

More than a week later, they're "survival training". Out in the woods behind Yardale for three days to fend for themselves. They were lumped together with Jorge's gang and received their customary beating, but the angels had warned them before they left that any life-threatening injuries inflicted upon each other would be returned in the form of electrical shocks. The cameras above the trees watch their every move.

They were able to take some tools with them. It's a little after midnight, and the darkness and the trees shield them a bit from the cameras. Christophe is using a shovel to dig a latrine for the ten of them to use.

He thought he was the only one awake, but then Jorge comes crawling out of the pile of pine needles he was using as a blanket and bends down next to the river to cup his hands and draw water. He's less than a dozen feet from Christophe.

"This is fun," Jorge snarks.

"Don't talk to me." Christophe plants the shovel into the ground. It's heavy, too heavy for him to wield easily.

"What? Your feelings still hurt from the last time I kicked your ass?"

It had been two days ago. Christophe still has the bruises.

"Just go away." He throws dirt over his shoulder.

Jorge stands up next to the water and surveys the reflective surface. "You know," he says, "Yardale School might be kind of an annoying place to be trapped in sometimes, but at least it lets me have some fun."

_Dig. Dig. Dig._

"Where else would I be able to kill shit whenever I wanted? Where else would I be able to get kickass magical powers someday? Where else would I be able to beat up my stupid bitch of a sister? Heh, actually, that last one I could do anywhere-"

_SLAM._

Jorge crumples on the ground next to the lake. He moans and puts a hand up to the cut on the back of his head. "What the hell-" he starts.

"_YOU FUCKING FREAK_!"

Christophe smashes his shovel down on Jorge's ribs, savoring the satisfying crack and the following screams.

"_WHAT KIND OF MURDERING BASTARD WOULD RAPE 'IS OWN SISTER WITH A FUCKING KNIFE?" _

He pounds the shovel down into Jorge's skull again and again, until it's just shards of bone and brains splattering all over the place.

He drops the bloody shovel to the sandy bank and crashes down next to it. His knees dig into the earth below him. He sobs and pants and the adrenaline crashes down and leaves him weak.

He's grown vey used to blood spatter.

"Holy shit, dude-"

He whirls to see Xander. Before the other boy can run, he swings the shovel into his neck.

_SNAP._

And now Xander's motionless in the dirt. Everyone else is struggling free of their makeshift beds and heading over to see what the hell is happening.

"Don't let zem escape," he snarls.

They're four against four, but Lilac never fights and the other boys don't know what to do without Jorge. Gregory pins Lou down and when Jonas tries to make a break for the trees, Christophe kills him with one swift blow. Alec goes next, his smug, ratlike face bashed in. Lilac doesn't fight, just lets Maria wrench her hands behind her back.

Lou is sobbing, saying he's sorry, that he never meant to hurt anyone. Gregory drops him on the ground in disgust.

"You still 'urt 'er." Christophe jerks his head at Maria. "You assholes tore 'er apart. You fucking freaks." He lifts his shovel above Lou's head.

"Beg for 'er mercy."

Lou begs and apologizes and tells Maria she's a goddess, she's beautiful, that Jorge was just jealous and he'll do whatever she wants.

Christophe looks at Maria.

"Don't hurt him," she whispers, her face pale.

"I 'ave to."

And then Lilac is the only one left. She's always been the odd one out, the quiet one, the girl everyone overlooked. They don't even know her real name. They nicknamed her Lilac after a flower in a picture book they caught her smiling at (the only time she's ever smiled). Maria lets go of her and she stands on her own.

"Why 'ave you sided wiz zem all along?" Christophe hefts his shovel. "Zey were all misogynistic assholes. We would 'ave treated you better."

She shrugs. She has scars on her face from the numerous battles they've all endured. Her eyes are black.

"Can you speak?"

She nods, and he sees a being even more broken than him. He sees a girl who was broken the day her parents gave her up for their greed. He sees someone shattered beyond repair.

Then she smiles, and he sees the woman she would grow to be; strong, defiant, independent. She'd be beautiful.

He smiles back at her, and then he swings.

* * *

There are several minutes of silence after he kills the last of Jorge's gang. Maria and Chase stare at the ground, numb. Gregory watches him with his steel-blue gaze.

He drags Jorge's body over with the others. His muscles strain from the effort but adrenaline keeps him pumping.

After what feels like forever, Maria rasps out, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Escaping."

He remembers Gregory's words from last week.

_ We're not strong enough to get out right now. Not strong enough to get out and stay out, not with the soldiers on every exit, not with these collars, not with them running the entire world. We need to become stronger._

_ Low Heavenfilth gain their power by eating the flesh and heart of other low Heavenfilth or angels. We've been taking out power from God, but it stands to reason that the heart of another of our kind-_

He grabs the shovel and uses it to slice a hole in Jorge's chest. Blood oozes out, even though his heart is dead.

"What are you doing?" Chase whispers.

He drops the shovel and reaches out to dig his fingers into the flesh. It's hard to rip it away with his stubby fingernails. His ears buzz. He makes out the sound of Gregory holding a screaming Maria back, but it doesn't register in his consciousness. He pulls the shreds of flesh from Jorge's body, digs around the rib cage, until he finds what he's looking for.

The heart.

It's small and purplish, slick with blood. Disgusting.

He tears it up and eats it raw. He does the same five more times.

* * *

By the time the helicopters arrive overhead, the first wave of nausea has already started to hit him. It isn't normal nausea, though. It's the kind of nausea he gets from drinking the purple fluid that is god's soul.

He takes this as a good sign before he starts throwing up.

The soldiers haul him into the helicopter. He's soaked in blood that's not his own, covered in bits of gore and flesh. They knock him out without debate and when he comes to he's in a cell.

It's only a cell for about two minutes. Then it morphs into a living nightmare.

Bugs crawl out of nowhere and burrow into his skin. They pierce him alive, eating at him. He watches Gregory split in half, his guts spilling over the floor.

Christophe tries to run but he slips in the pool of organs and blood and slime and hits the floor. Plants shoot out from his body and cement him to the walls. Chase is handcuffed to the door; a fire sweeps through him and burns his bones to char and blackened chunks.

It can't be a dream, it can't be, because he smells the burning flesh and he's screaming until his throat is raw and scratched. Something tugs on his tank top. He turns, and there's the top half of Gregory, his spine trailing out behind him. He smiles at Christophe and mice flee from his mouth and travel up Christophe's skin.

Christophe screams again. Maria crawls up to him, a red-hot fire poker searing at the flesh in her hands. She strips her clothes off and masturbates with it, moaning in orgasm when blood spurts over her legs. Strings of flesh stick to the poker when she yanks it out of her body. She grins at him with her little-girl confidence. She's missing three teeth. She was so proud when she lost her first baby tooth. Blood pools in her mouth and dribbles over her chin.

He can't hear his own voice anymore, can't hear it over the clamor of nightmares in his head. There's Lilac curled up in the corner. She sings high enough to grate his ears. Her voice is beautiful but it hurts, fucking_ hurts_. "Please kill me," she sings out. "Please kill me, please fix me."

"Stop!" he screams. "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!"

Only it doesn't stop. It keeps on going and going until he's accepted it as his new reality.

* * *

When he wakes up for the second time there's someone standing above him, touching his shoulder gently. It's Ms. Kingston. Her expression almost contains sympathy. Almost.

"Are you real?" he asks.

"No," she says, and she morphs into a six-foot-tall cockroach and starts to play with human heads. Far off he hears, "it hasn't been absorbed into his system yet" but then the sound of Ms. Kingston-the-Cockroach's laughter drowns out the world.

* * *

When he wakes up for the third time, he's face to face with Ms. Kingston again.

"Stay away from me," he says.

At first she wears the same sympathetic expression, but this time she snorts at his response and says, "Get up."

He stumbles to his feet when she yanks on his arm. He recognizes the cell now the effects of the six hearts have died down. She leads him out into the hallway. Soldiers watch them warily as they hurry past.

Mr. White meets them at the elevator. "I'll take it from here," he says.

Ms. Kingston leaves Christophe without a word. He'll never see her again.

Mr. White keeps a firm grip on Christophe's shoulder as they take the elevator up. Christophe's heart pounds a million miles a minute. This is it. This is it. This is his chance. This is what he's been waiting for.

Mr. White doesn't speak on the way up.

He remembers Gregory's words, Gregory's plan._ Our first priority is to get these collars off. We need the keys for that. They won't give the keys over, not for anything, not for anyone but-_

The elevator doors ding open.

* * *

There's God, in all his misshapen, animalistic glory.

"I am sorry for all the trouble, my lord." Mr. White bows his head. "I'm sure you have heard of all the trouble Christophe here has been causing."

God gives him a look that makes his bones ache.

"Yes," he says, "yes, I have."

"We were debating how to kill him," Mr. White says. "Seeing as he's just finished absorbing all six children's magical powers, we were wondering if we should rip out his heart and feed it to another unfortunate child. We've already put almost a year's worth of work into him. It'd be a shame to waste all that celestial power."

God inspects Christophe and sighs. "Yes," he says finally. "Yes, I think that would be a good idea, if we must."

And now Christophe knows it's time to move.

He's not helpless anymore, not like last time when Mr. White could just pick him up and sling him over his shoulder. He has magic now. And so he uses it.

Claws spring from his fingertips. He lunges forward and grabs God, grabs him and fucking touches him. God feels hot. Just being near him makes Christophe want to relax, but he tenses and lets the claws trickle around God's neck.

God sighs in his arms.

"Let go of him, Christophe," Mr. White says.

"Don't you dare use ze shock collar. I'll kill 'im eef I'm forced to. I'll fucking kill our perfect 'God.'" He spits out the words with venom.

"You can't kill him, he's a god."

"Zen why 'aven't you shocked me already?"

Silence between them. God sighs again, as if he doesn't really care about what happens next (maybe he doesn't).

"Give me ze keys."

Mr. White doesn't protest, doesn't debate. The keys appear from out of nowhere. He tosses them to Christophe and Christophe catches them with his free hands.

"Zank you," he snarks. Then, "Don't you dare come after me."

"I won't."

"I don't believe you."

And so he releases God and shoves him away and reaches out to grab Mr. White around the throat. His claws slice through the man's neck.

These claws are made of sky-metal. They kill angels with ease. And so bright blue blood gushes from Mr. White and he topples to the ground.

Christophe steps back, his chest heaving. God looks at him with the sad disappoint of a parent over something inappropriate their child has done. He doesn't make a move to stop Christophe.

Christophe wonders what kind of game he playing.

He spits out some of Mr. White's blood (it tastes like rotten oranges) and takes the elevator down back to Yardale School.

* * *

Soldiers are waiting for him. He blows through them, cutting them to pieces, ignoring their cries of pain. He doesn't know if they use the shock collar on him. The new magic buzzing through his veins makes the real world less real, churning under his skin until nothing affects him but the pulse of magic.

He makes his way up to the student bedrooms. Maria, Chase, and Gregory are right where he expected them to be (Maria's bedroom).

When Gregory sees him covered in blood, he says, "oh, it worked."

"Bastard," Christophe hisses. The claws retreat back into his fingers. "Let's get out of 'ere."

They grab onto each other's hands and peel out of there.

He leads them down to the first floor, cutting any soldiers in their path out of the way. The whole building is on alert.

Christophe opens the doors (and sunlight, god, beautiful sunlight burst through). Gregory plants his heels into the ground.

"Let's go! We don't 'ave much time."

"We don't have any time," Gregory says quietly.

"What ze 'ell are you talking about?" he snaps.

"We're not leaving, Christophe."

". . . what?"

He stares at Gregory. Stares at the blond British bastard. Stares at the boy he loves so much it hurts all the way through his body.

Maria and Chase stare at Gregory, like this is the first they've hear of it, but they don't argue with him, either, and they don't step over to Christophe's side.

"We're not leaving," Gregory repeats.

"I know why you said." The dry tang to his mouth makes it difficult to rasp out the words. "Why ze 'ell not?"

"Because Yardale's right. We don't have a future out there. We have one in here."

"A royally fucked up one!" He grabs Gregory's shoulders and fights the urge to shake him back and forth. "So you're giving in? You're not going to run because you're afraid to even try? I zought you we're stronger zan zat, Gregory Zorne."

"No," Gregory says. "No, I'm not." He wears a wry smile, almost like he's apologizing for something.

"Greg-" Maria starts, then stops at the expression on his face. "He's right, Chris," she whispers. "We can't survive out there. We can't just run anymore. We have to actually fight back against the school."

He remembers what his nightmares made her do and swallows hard.

"We 'ave to get out of 'ere."

A soldier lunges for them. Without thinking, magic flares up from Christophe and blankets out to protect them in a shield.

"We can't," Maria says. "We can't leave. We're trapped here. We'd just be running, Chris, running for our whole lives. We're not strong enough to defeat them the way we are now."

"Look what I deed!" he cries out. "I killed zem! I fucking killed all of zem! And now you're telling me eet ees all for nozing, zat we are not going to get out of 'ere anyway?"

The expressions on Maria and Gregory's faces . . . God, he never wants to see anything like that ever again.

Chase reaches out. He's crying. Christophe tries to brush him off, but Chase clutches too tightly. Something warm glows within him. He's felt cold for so long. He doesn't think he's warmed up ever since he left the Fridge.

But now Chase is smiling at him with heartbroken eyes, and the warmth is spreading over his face, and when Chase pulls away he can see out of both eyes again.

"You 'ealed me," he says. "You used magic."

"Yeah," Chase rasps out. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"I can't let them 'ave me," Christophe says. "I just . . . no. Never. Not so close. I've destroyed myself a zousand times. I need zis. I need zis. Please. I need you zree. _I am not free without you."_

And they're shaking their heads and stepping away, and he sees himself for what he is: a monster covered in blood. He draws back. His shield starts to ripple and fade.

"Fine," he says. His fingers tremble as he works his stolen key into the collar. A couple twists and it falls open and tumbles off his neck, and he feels like he can breath deeply for the first time in months.

He steps through the door. His shield sags and dies and the soldiers rush for the three and grab them up. Christophe takes off running.

He calls for his stolen magic, grasping at it, and it comes to him.

The shovel he used to smash the heads of the six children in appears in his hands. He jams it into the dirt below his feet and the magic swells inside of him.

And then he digs.

* * *

Cities smell of trash and human waste. Manhattan seems ten times as large when he doesn't have a hand to cling to.

He lights a stolen cigarette with shaky fingers and leans back against the alley wall. His lungs resist but he ignores the urge to cough. His shovel rests on the cement next to him. The feeling of magic buzzing under his skin fades away.

Everything aches. Everything reeks. Even though he filched a change of clothes from the Laundromat, he still smells like angel blood.

It's almost night. Dusk settles around his shoulders. He's on his own in a huge city, still unfamiliar even though he's spent several days in it before. The goons from the Yardale school are doubtless hunting him down right now. They'll want to kill him. There will be no taking prisoners this time. There will be no punishment. He will die. He will die, and he will go to hell.

The cold of the bricks leeches his body heat from him. He sighs and drags on his cigarette.

"I don't need zem," he tells the world. "I 'ave never needed zem. I – I – I will be perfectly fine on m-m-m-my own."

Stupid dirt in his eyes.


	20. Chapter 20

Guys, there are like four chapters and an epilogue after this, I'm not even joking. 0_o They're all going to be quite long, though, although not as long as this monster of a chapter.

Thank you very much, Jugenfrei, who read over the last chapter before it was published, and assured me everyone would like the mind-fuckery. Also thanks to Burlesque Romantique, who, when I asked her, said gore is awesome. I'm glad you guys liked the last chapter. Thanks for all the positive reviews! (I got ten reviews, ohmigod, it's a record). I'm worried that this chapter is rather melodramatic, so inform me if it goes that way and I'll try to fix it. I'm also not happy with my voice for this chapter. I feel like it's not the same as the last few have been. Let me know what you think!

Warning: Cliché gunk in this chapter. Ugh. There's a scene that will make you realize why I don't write gushy romantic shit. IT'S BECAUSE I SUCK AT IT.

More music I listened to: (thanks for music recommendations!)

Miss Murder (AFI)

Exile Vilify (The National)

Life Starts Now (Three Days Grace)

* * *

Even though we fell asleep a bit after four, I wake up at five-thirty with a headache and a desperate need for a smoke.

Damien and I are curled up next to each other; foreheads pressed together, breathing in each other's faces. His breath smells terrible. I wriggle free of his grip on me and prop myself up on my elbow. He continues to breath evenly. His forehead creases at my movement, then relaxes when I drag my fingers through his hair.

When I first met him – hell, just a few days ago – I would have shoved him off me and stormed out for my cigarette. Now I speculate as I watch him.

He never looks peaceful when he's awake. There's always the wary glint his eyes or his hunched-over shoulders. He wasn't lighthearted when I first met him weeks ago (far from it), but he did smile a lot more, and he carried himself with confidence.

I suppose getting beaten up, forced to suck off nameless soldiers for cigarettes, mocked and despised, stripped of his powers, and having his head ripped off wasn't particularly good for him.

He never looks peaceful when he's awake. He's not particularly happy when he's sleeping, either, but at least

"Christophe?"

I glance up. Maria has ducked her head into the rec. room. The soldier who watched over Damien and me last night scowls at her. He stayed still, his arms crossed and his glare painted on, for the entire duration of our video-game spree.

"Quiet," I mutter. His arms slipped down over my waist while I contemplated him, and now I have to wiggle my hips in an attempt to get free. He tightens around me. I flop onto the floor, still half on the couch.

"Goddamn it!" I hiss out. He has a fucking strong hold on me, and he won't wake up! I kick out and have to half-swim my way onto the floor. I end up landing in a heap, headfirst. Damien snores and rolls over.

"_Beetch_!"

I stagger to my feet and dust myself off. I'm still in the standard-issue uniform; black tank, black sweatpants. Maria wears it as well, although hers is too large for her skinny figure.

"Cocksucker," I spit at Damien's unconscious form. Somehow he stays asleep.

Maria giggles. "Breakfast?" she asks.

"Smoke," I argue.

I mooch a cigarette off a soldier in the cafeteria and smoke it outside the doors with a soldier watching me before I pick up a breakfast of bacon and eggs. We eat in the rec. room, since I don't want to wake Damien up (I'm not certain if I can) but it seems wrong to leave him here on his own. Anything could hurt him.

"So," Maria says, and munches on her bacon. She inspects me while she chews. "Lot has happened to you in the past few days, then?"

"Nozing more zan ze usual." I snort and stab an egg.

"Yeah," she says, and her mouth twists the way it does when she wants to say something she hates herself for thinking. "Pretty normal shit going on."

"More magic lessons for me." I slurp on my coffee.

She stares at me for a full thirty seconds before she leans forward in her chair. We're sitting at the card table a dozen feet from Damien, and her chair legs squeak as her body weight shifts.

"Uh, no more bitching or whining? Thought you hated magic lessons."

"Zey're not zat bad." I down the rest of my coffee. It's bitter. I hate coffee. I don't know why I drink it.

"Didja get laid?" she asks.

"What ze 'ell?" I slam my cup down on the table.

"You hate magic lessons and now you're like 'oh, whatever'? Have you just been so bitchy since you came back because you weren't getting any, and Damien finally gave it up or something? Because you're not complaining, and it's seriously freaking me out."

"I don't even like sex." I push my plate away from me. "I 'ave 'ad ze consensual kind before, and I do not get eet at all."

"Not even with your husband?" she teases, but her eyebrows link together in concern.

"No." I take a minute to explain the concept of asexuality to her.

"But I thought they, like, caught you guys screwing or something," she says.

Oh, fuck. Somehow I manage not to gape at her. I could tell her the truth, but there are cameras in every corner of this room. I didn't even think of this. Stupid me. I should have said I was bi or something, like Damien.

I finally manage to splutter out something along the lines of "eet ees not like I can't physically 'ave sex" and leave it at that, even though the suspicion in her eyes makes me clench and unclench my fists in worry.

"So why aren't you complaining?" she asks.

I look at Damien. One of his arms is draped over the couch cushion. His mouth is open. He snores.

"Oh," she says. "So they're finally willing to kill him."

"No, zey're not!" I slam my hands down on the table. "Zey are not going to kill 'im, ever, 'e ees too valuable! So don't you dare ever suggest zat again, understand? Zey are not going to kill 'im and zey are not going to kill any of you!"

She finishes chewing on her bacon, puts her fork down, and says, mildly, "Dude, chillax."

"Fuck you!" I stalk over to Damien, who's sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "You need breakfast," I snarl, and proceed to drag him off to the cafeteria before he can protest.

* * *

Mike, Damien and I sit in a circle, cross-legged, breathing deeply. My head hurts from barely grabbing an hour of sleep, but I don't dare let myself pass out.

Mike continues to give me instructions in that grating voice of his. My fists tighten and I resist the urge to punch him. Instead, I follow his words. I still end up almost killing myself three times because my mind grows too detached from my body, but halfway through the lesson I manage to snatch at the rope and snag onto it.

It feels slippery in my metaphorical hands. I trace my fingers over the edge, the slices of woven thread straining against my flesh. When I open my eyes, Mike is smirking.

"What?" I demand.

"You're glowing."

I glance down at my body. Bright light hovers around my body, a white layer of mist blurring my defining details. "Damn it."

Damien scoots away. "Sorry," he mutters. "You . . . sting."

"Sting?" I drop the rope in my mind and the glow fades.

"Why did you do that?" Mike snaps.

"I don't want to sting," I say.

"Again."

I open my mouth, then shut it. Damien looks at me in surprise.

_Bend before you break._

"All right," I mutter.

I close my eyes and reach for the rope. This time it comes easier. Mike instructs me to coil is around my body and I glow even hotter. The white light sticks to my skin, itching. It even starts to sting at me, too. When I mention it to Mike, he says it's normal.

He wants me to practice holding onto it as long as possible. Sweat trickles down my face. I can only hold my grip on the rope for a minute. Then he says usually one must have the control to hold onto it for about six hours before they can use any spells.

"But I deed eet ze ozzer day. Wiz my shovel. When I was fighting zat demon."

"That was battle magic, instinct. It's unpredictable and you can't control it. It's the kind of magic you used when you escaped from Yardale."

I flinch. Damien raises his eyebrows.

"I can help you access your power." Mike reaches a hand out. I jerk away.

"No! I don't want to use it!" I gasp out.

"Christophe Simon –" he growls.

"I don't." Nothing good ever happens when I use my stolen magic.

Damien grabs my hand. I look at it.

"I'll help him," he says.

Mike glares at him. "You're a _hellspawn_." He says "hellspawn" like it's a curse. It kinda is. "What would you know about pure, celestial magic? And you can't even use your own power."

"The magic is the same, just a different color," he says. "And I can still access it."

"Fuck all of you." I start to stand up, and then Mike gives me a knowing smirk that makes my blood run cold.

Right now, the only use they have for Damien is to control me . . . and if they decide controlling me isn't worth the effort . . .

I sink back down and half-lean against Damien.

"Fine."

Sweat beads down his neck. His eyes squeeze shut. For a second, nothing happens. Then the warmth floods me. This magic feels different; there's a bitter, coppery tang that makes my heart sing, _Damien_! I close my eyes, too. For a second, it feels like the whole world bleeds away and it's just the two of us.

My fingers slide over the rope and when I turn, Damien's right there, smiling a sad smile he's been wearing recently, his red eyes glowing. I try to pass him the rope, but I can't. The collar around his neck keeps it from leaving my hands, or him from accepting it. Guess they're blocking our ability to exchange magical energy.

I feel the magic burn inside me. I want to push it away, but I can't, because if I don't learn, if I'm not useful, then they'll _dispose_ of us.

And now I'm letting them control me.

I take a deep breath and wrap the rope around my body.

* * *

I slip into the routine so easily I don't even notice until it's too late.

Wake up at five thirty, steal a cigarette, eat breakfast. Then I have magic lessons with Damien, who helps me access my power. Apparently I could learn on my own, but that would take years. Within two weeks I can already hold onto the glowing feeling for two hours.

After the magic lessons, I usually have a mission.

Sometimes it's me and Maria, or me and Chase. We never are all allowed out together.

Most often, Gregory and I fight together.

I can't call on the battle magic at will, but whenever I'm inches from death my shovel appears, and with it, physical strength beyond my former comprehension.

So we fight, and we kill, and we slaughter.

When we return to Yardale, it's usually late at night. Damien greets me when I return to our room. We talk for a little bit, maybe planning an escape, although as time passes we stop talking about that as much and turn to more mundane aspects of our screwy lives.

About three months after my recapture, after we've just completed a particularly rough mission, we stand alone in a town full of slaughtered demons. Chase came with us this time. He falls asleep with his back against the wall of a house, his head tipped back and his mouth open. His clothes are ragged from the battle and his magic heals his wounds even after he passes out.

There were thousands of the cat-shaped demons. They swarmed the tiny, Midwestern town within minutes. The humans that weren't evacuated are already dead. Corpses clutter the ground, and I almost trip over them a dozen times as I make my way towards Gregory.

He's coated in black demon gunk. His sword shimmers and fades away as he stands in the late-afternoon sunlight. When the sun pierces through the clouds and highlights his body, he looks like an angel. A fucked-up angel in a fucked-up world.

My shovel trails over the ground, slicing through dead bodies as I walk. It fades beyond my control, leaving me feeling naked and empty. I'm coated in the same gore as him, as well as quite a lot of my own blood.

He turns to me when he sees me walking towards him. He puts a hand on my shoulder and his magic glows within me. My wounds fade. I spit out some demon blood and pull a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. I light one without trembling, without faltering.

I observe the town before us. Ruined. There's the elementary school, there are the corpses of kids who tried to escape the onslaught of demons but couldn't. There's the general store with blood smears on the wall. The sunset gives everything an orange glow, as if it's peaceful instead of ugly. Demon corpses mix in with the humans, both sides so mutilated I can't tell the difference any more.

Chase sleeps with a smile on his face, happy in his dreams. The helicopter will be here in a few minutes to pick us up and take us away from what we've done.

"You did well today." Gregory says.

In response, I offer him a cigarette. He accepts.

* * *

That night, I lie awake in our bed, knees curled up to my chest, my head in my arms. Damien sleeps next to me, passed out from a hard day of whatever he does when I'm gone.

I smell like blood, even though I showered twice.

And somehow life isn't so bad here. I don't get hurt as often, maybe just knocked around a bit. I keep my head down, kill when ordered, and in return I can sleep next to Damien.

Soon I'll be able to use magic. It'll be useful for the upcoming war. I've got my glowy-holdy time up to almost five hours.

Things are going to hell out there. The media is going insane, but they don't understand what's happening. The demons are slaughtering entire cities, killing innocents every second. The low Heavenfilth soldiers can only do so much. Sometimes the school has to call on us High Heavenfilth for the worst of the demons.

I look over at Damien. He still doesn't look peaceful when he sleeps. I don't remember if he ever has.

The sheets bunch up around my as I shift my position. I sigh through the darkness. _I'll escape soon_, I promise myself. _I'll escape, I'll escape. _

And then I realize I've been promising the same thing every night for three months.

The only difference between Gregory and me is that he doesn't lie to himself anymore.

* * *

I thought I would have to suck someone off, but when I ask a soldier for a laptop, he fetches me one without debate. I guess they think I'm too much of a helpless sheep to do anything they wouldn't want me to do. I guess they're right.

There aren't any battles with demons scheduled for today, so Damien joins me on our bed and leans over my shoulder while I load my preferred web browser for the first time in months.

First I open a gaming forum for cover, so maybe I can say I was just chatting in the forum if the angels demand about anything suspicious. Then I check my eMail. I have over a thousand messages. I groan. I'm never going to get around to any of these jobs. Being locked away tends to limit one's options. Just a quick glance through a few reveals more than half of the requests are issues to do with the demons. Well, I'll be dealing with those indirectly.

"Think we could use any of this? For, like, help or something?" Damien breathes out.

"Microphones," I whisper. He glares at me in frustration.

He reaches out, opens up a word document, and starts to type. "WHAT CAN WE ACCESS ON A LAPTOP THAT WOULD HELP-"

I snatch his hands away.

"What?" he demands.

I point to the keyboard, then to the base of the laptop. Gesturing doesn't work, so I fish the notepad and pen out of the bedside table drawer and write, "LOOK AT THE LAPTOP. IT DOESN'T FIT TOGETHER RIGHT. THEY PROBABLY ADDED SOME SORT OF KEYLOGGING TECHNOLOGY. THEY KNOW WHAT WE TYPE."

Being paranoid always pays off.

His eyes widen and he nods. He takes the notepad and pen from me and scrawls out, "_But what can we do to get out of here, then_?"

I write in all caps, as usual. "MAYBE SOMEONE WE CAN CONTACT-"

Kyle.

I know his eMail from the time I had him steal Gregory's hard drive. I send him a message, praying he's on somehow. I think I heard a soldier mention a while ago that they failed to capture him, that he was with hell's army or something. Kyle, Kyle, please be okay.

My message says, "Hello, how's it been?" And in less than thirty seconds he replies with, "MOLE? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?"

I grin. Damien gives me a triumphant high-five.

Kyle opens a chat box. I chew on my nail. How to communicate with him without the keylogging technology picking it up? Unfortunately, Kyle and I do not have some sort of secret code set up.

**Kyle:** _What's happening? Pip said you were captured, was he wrong? Do you know where Butters is? OMFG, the angels destroyed our entire town._

I glance at Damien.

**Kyle: **_They killed a lot of people._

Damien reaches around me and types: _is Pip ok?_

**Kyle**: _Don't know, haven't seen him since a little before the invasion. We're with the "low hellpsawn" soldiers right now. Ugh, doesn't make any sense, but, Mole, you know what's going on, right? _

I try to think of a way we can communicate without Yardale finding out. If we tell Kyle everything, then I'll loose their trust and they would hurt Damien. If we don't tell him anything, we're trapped here forever.

I shove Damien's fingers off the keyboard. I'm half-leaning back in his lap at this point, so he sees everything I type.

**Me:** _I know what's going on._

I must be infuriating Kyle, because a second later he replies with: _WHERE ARE YOU? WE NEED YOU!_

**Me**: _Can't say._

**Kyle**: _Why, you don't know? What's been happening to you for the past three months?_

I chew my lip. Goddamn it . . .

Then Kyle continues onwards.

_Or is it that you know but can't say because you're not supposed to?_

**Me:** _Second one._

**Kyle:** _How would they know? Is it because you don't want to tell me anything or that you want to tell me stuff but you would get in trouble?_

**Me**: _Second again._

"He seems like it wouldn't suck to be around him too much," Damien mutters into my ear. "At least he's not a complete moron."

I elbow him and Kyle continues.

_How would they know? Are they standing over your shoulder? Because if that's it, you're fucked, dude. Keylogging technology or something?_

**Me:** _Second_. It's nice Kyle's such a nerd. And at least we're getting somewhere.

**Kyle:** _Do you know where Butters is?_

I stiffen. Damien and I have been assuming Butters to be dead for quite a while. Whenever I ask one of the angels if I can see him, they say no. I've found out by now that he told on his friends and got the entire town of South Park burned down, which was a pathetic move but I can't exactly blame him if he's dead.

**Me:** _Not going to have much luck with him._

It takes Kyle almost a minute to respond.

_Stan here. Where r u? Pip said u were captured. _

_I am,_ I type back. _Letting me use the computer._

_Kyle here. Who?_

**Me:** _Can't say._

_Angels, right? That's what Pip said_.

**Me:** _Yes._

**Kyle**: _Anyone else captured with you? We haven't seen Pip for a while._

Damien reaches around me and types, "Hello, little brothers. It's your favorite antichrist."

I giggle a little hysterically under my breath.

**Kyle**:_ DAMIEN?_

I knock his fingers off the keyboard. _Yeah, he's here with me_.

**Kyle:** _How the hell do they have Damien captured? He's the fucking antichrist! _

**Me**: _Shock collars_

_Stan here. shock collars? WTF? U need 2 get out of there! _

_Kyle here. Is it the same guy who was stalking you before?_

**Me**: _Yes. _

I don't know how much more I can say before the Yardale School becomes suspicious of mutiny. I've probably already said too much.

_Stan here. Can u get out on ur own?_

_prbly not_

It hurts to admit. Damien's grip tightens around me.

_This is Kyle. Dude, if you have the antichrist with you, we can get hell's army to come help you out!_

**Me:** _That's a terrible idea_.

It would result in an all-out war if Hell's army attacked Heaven's headquarters on earth.

**Kyle:** _Dude, you have the antichrist with you. It'd totally work._

Damien's hands close over mine as he steals control of the keyboard back. _No, my father really couldn't give a damn about what happened to me._

Kyle doesn't respond for long enough to make us think he's abandoned us.

_Just asked Seaver, (he's the head general guy here) and he says they really need the antichrist. He's looking over my shoulder right now, he says that we need to rescue you, Damien, and Butters if he's still okay, we need you for the war or something._

_Are you fighting_? I type.

_Uh, no, we can't really use magic yet, but we're still learning, so we haven't seen much of the action. The other guys are fighting. _

I wonder if I should tell him about the cities the demons and low Hellspawn armies have slaughtered. Then I decide that would greatly decrease my chances of getting out of here.

_(Damien here), I don't want to fight._

_ You can't just let Heaven's army get away with killing half our town! _Kyle retorts.

I rub my temples.

_Where are you? _

_ Can't say._

_ Umm . . . play the guessing game . . . US still? _

_ Yes. _

_ East/west? _

_ First_

It takes a minute, but I manage to get our general location across to him.

_Okay, Seaver says we can be there in two, three days, maybe less. Think you can hold on until then? He gives us a phone number to call if we can. Do you ever get to leave . . .wherever you are? _

_ . . . . maybe._ They never let me leave when I was a kid, but I've been so docile lately I might be able to pull all sorts of bullshit. I know they let Maria and Chase leave on occasion, and of course, Gregory has full run of the place.

_Try to get out in three days time, if possible. We'll be there to help you get the shock collars off. Good luck, Christophe. _

I erase my Internet history and get rid of all the cookies on the computer. I consider smashing the keylogger technology, but I'm not certain how they work and for all I know the angels could already have all the details of my conversation with Kyle. I just hope I didn't say anything incriminating.

I shut the laptop, scoot it off my lap, and curl up against Damien. My entire body is shaking. My heart pounds loudly enough for us both to hear it. He runs his fingers through my hair.

"It'll be okay, you know," he says.

"You don't 'ave anyzing to back that up."

He's silent for a second. His heart is as loud as mine. I'm overcome with the urge to push my head against his chest and draw in the sound. In the past three months we've shared physical contact as necessity to fool Yardale and to keep our sanity. My body inches from his, his fingers twisting in my shaggy hair . . . this is as far as we go, and for some reason it feels almost perfect.

"I'll back it up," he promises.

"Liar."

"Stop being such a fucking pessimist."

"Zis ees coming from ze boy who ees supposed to take over ze world."

"I'm very optimistic about taking over the world," he says cheerfully.

Casually, I throw my arm over him and rest my head against his chest. I soak in his body heat. He's warm (antichrist and all that). I don't know anyone else as warm as him. His heart sounds like a drum. A rather off-beat drum, as it picks up when I nuzzle up against him. I grin wickedly.

"You're really scared, aren't you?"

I freeze. "'Ow-"

"Otherwise you wouldn't be this close to me." He smiles that sad smile of his, that smile I really hate and want to wipe off his chin. "I know you too well, stupid. And I've promised it'll be okay, haven't I?"

"Don't call me stupid, cocksucker," I snap back. "And I am not afraid. I am not afraid of anyzing zis place can zrow at us."

The lie doesn't just fade away. It hangs there, looming over us.

After about ten minutes of us lying on our bed, Damien asks the date.

"Twenty-eighz. Remember ze big deal ze angels were making about fucking Christmas?" Damien and I sulked in our bedroom all throughout the day and wouldn't come out.

"Twenty-eight? Dude, that means 'it's' in three days . . . New Year's Eve."

"Point?"

He grins down at me. "So . . . how would you like to go on a date?"

* * *

At first the angels are an adamant "no." Then Damien puts on his best puppy dog expression and points out how good I've been, how we have the shock collars on, how we don't have anywhere to run.

Then they say yes.

We have to have a six-guard escort on us at all times, and they can't be more than a dozen yards away. We can't suddenly start running anywhere. We cannot stop and talk with anyone for more than a minute. We cannot leave a certain pre-designated area.

But they say yes.

Butterflies hatch in my stomach. I spend the night after our contact with Kyle lying awake, even as Damien slumbers next to me.

_Escape._

The word doesn't mean the same thing it used to.

Gregory and Maria and Chase were right. All those years ago, they were right. I can't keep running anymore. The Yardale School has too strong a grip on me. Now that I've let them know they can hurt me, now that I've let them control me, they'll never stop.

Damien mutters, "Chriiiiistttoppphhee . . . . mmmmmm . . . you don't _haaavvee_ to . . . "

I flush bright red. Oh god, I _really_ don't want to know what kind of dream he's having. I roll out of bed and take a shower, even though it's past midnight. When I come back he's sleeping peacefully again.

Damien cannot survive here much longer. He's barely hanging on as it is.

But if this escape attempt fails, they'll kill us both for sure.

_It can't fail, it can't. _

I used to not care. I used to not care what I'd loose.

I want to go back to not caring. I want to yell, "fuck ze world!" and fight the Yardale School tooth and nail.

Caring about people sucks.

* * *

Cold slows the demons down. There are no missions the next day. Instead, we're in training. Snow has coated the arena outside, so we work in the indoor one.

Gregory and I have been mock fighting for a month or so, the same way Maria and I fought on my first day here. We face each other with just our fists.

He swings the first punch. I duck and slice a roundhouse kick around at him. He jumps over my kick and lands with catlike ease.

"Ey," I mock. "No using magic."

"That was my own natural grace," he teases back. Some part of him relaxes when we fight. He even smiles for real on occasion.

He plants a kick on my chest and I crash into the ground. His left boot hovers above my head, and I roll out of the way before he can bring it down. My legs whack into right ankle, and he hits the ground with a satisfying thump.

I scramble to my feet, panting for breath. Wish I had my shovel. The bitches still won't give it back to me. Before I can throw an attack at him, he jumps up and surveys me.

"I heard you're going out into the city."

I shrug and watch his stance for any vulnerabilities. His weight is shifted to the right. "Eet ess just a date, no beeg deal, _oui_?"

Then I lunge and grab him on the left side. We topple to the ground, grappling with each other. Eventually he ends up on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head.

"What are you planning, Christophe?"

The damn part of me that doesn't know how to fucking shut up snarks back, "What makes you zink I'm planning somezing?"

His fist crashes down next to my cheek, inches from my ear. Our gazes lock. My black eyes meet his steel blue. He weighs about forty pounds more than me. His weight suffocates me.

"I zought we were play fighting," I say.

"We are. That's why I didn't hit you." He smiles down at me without an inch of humor.

"I'm just going on a date, getting out for ze first time in monzs wizzout 'aving to kill somezing," I scoff. "Don't overreact."

His fist remains. He bends down, breathing in my ear.

"The war is coming soon. We have to fight. Don't you get it? We have to fight and we have to kill all of them, and your precious little fucktoy is only going to be casualty."

I tense underneath him. "_Get off me_."

He doesn't move, just keeps spitting out words. "I really don't want to see you get hurt, so I'm not going to say anything to the angels, but god, Christophe, think, fucking _think_ before you fuck yourself over. You're safe here. You'll have to fight, but you're safe for now and I can protect you in the final battle."

"You _do_ know," I say, "zat we are all going to die in ze war."

He shakes his head. "No. Our army is bigger. They're the ones who will die."

I laugh, but it's a harsh, strangled sound.

He grabs my hair and yanks my head back. It bangs against the floor beneath me. "Shut up," he hisses. "Just shut up and listen. Don't do anything stupid, because I'll stop you. You've finally figured out how to just live and let live. Don't go fucking around with what you have here. Heaven's army is omniscient. They will track you down and they will kill you and they will kill _him_."

He climbs up off me, still seething with rage. Then he flashes me a smile and stalks out of the indoor training room.

I lie there for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling. Florescent lights bathe my body in a bright yellow glow. There isn't anyone else in the arena. After three months of obedience, they trust me enough to let me walk around on my own.

I sit up and stretch out my limbs to test for injuries. Other than my sore head, Gregory didn't hurt me. I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. As long as I do whatever they want, I'm perfectly fine and no gets hurts.

I hunch over and press my face into my arms. A wheezing sound meets my ears, and it takes me a second to realize I'm laughing. Hah-hah, I'm going to die, so funny, right? Hah-hah, they'll slice Damien's head off and this time they won't let it grow back. And then they'll send Maria and Chase and Gregory out to the front lines on their own and they'll die, they'll all die.

I asked Gregory a few days ago. Turns out I was wrong, I'm not going to hell for my crimes after I die.

Us High Heavenfilth and High Hellspawn don't get an afterlife. We just blink out of existence.

My mouth tastes like sand. The sound of blood rushing in my veins echoes through my ears. I laugh until I'm out of air.

* * *

Damien's curled up on our bed, the laptop in front of him. His eyes widen when he sees me slip into our room.

"Dude, you okay? What happened?"

I rub my still-reddened eyes. "We can't do zis. We can't."

He knows what I'm talking about. His expression turns guarded. His eyes narrow. "What happened?"

"Nozing." I sit down on the bed next to his leg. "We just . . . we can't."

He slams the laptop closed and grabs me around the waist. I resist for a second, and then his familiar scent and warmth envelops me. Somehow I relax against him.

"I don't want you to die," I whisper.

"Goddamn it," he mutters. "I'm not gonna die."

He pulls the notepad and pen from the dresser and hands it to me. I scribble on it.

_They WILL kill you, they'll KILL you if we screw this escape up-_

He snatches the pen from me.

_We're not going to screw up._

I write with shaking hands. _But what if we do? What if we get out and they catch us again anyway? They'll kill you they will they're sadistic bastards all of them they'll kill you_

_I would rather die,_ he writes, _than be trapped every day in a hellhole where I can't even speak without fear._

_I don't want you to die, _I retort.

He takes the pen from me.

_But I want you to live._

He smiles at me, that fucking sad smile I wish he would stop smiling, because it feels like it's stabbing screwdrivers into my lungs and heart. I can't breathe when he smiles like that, and I can't feel anything except the desire to make him smile for real.

_And you're not living, Christophe, you're just surviving. There's a difference, you know. To live, you need to be free. _

I toss the notepad aside. We'll rip out the pages later and burn them to cover our tracks. I wrap my arms around him and we hold each other like we'll fall apart if we don't.

"I don't want to survive," I whisper. "I've been surviving for eleven years. I want to live."

* * *

The next day, the day before our "date" – before everything goes horribly wrong or horribly right – Damien and I eat dinner with Chase and Maria. My mission for the day ended early, and although I'm exhausted I smile at the right moments in the conversation and laugh when appropriate. Gregory is off on a solo mission, so it's just the four of us in our customary corner of the cafeteria.

This is a goodbye, even if they don't know it. Either we die or we escape.

I only wonder for a second if we can convince them to come with us. Maria _did _speak of escape, and I'm sure Chase feels the same.

No, we can't invite them on our "date". It'll look too suspicious. And I'm pretty sure Maria's talk of escape was just that, talk. She wanted to escape ten years ago, but when the time came she couldn't do it.

I remember when we were just little kids, huddled in an alley and talking about families, when Maria explained to me the difference between surviving and living, just like Damien did last night.

That was before I murdered her brother with a shovel before she could do it herself.

Damien and I are about to head up to our room when Chase pulls me into a huge hug.

"Be careful, okay?" he whispers into my ear.

I freeze. _He knows._

But he doesn't say anything else. I glance at Maria, but she's smirking at a sarcastic comment Damien has made, as clueless as always.

"I always am." I reach up and pat him on the shoulder. Then I wonder if I'll ever see him again.

Can I leave them a second time? I don't even have consider it. Hell yes, I can.

* * *

It's five in the afternoon on New Year's Eve. The soldiers give us each three twenty-dollar bills before slipping into the crowd, indistinguishable from the thousands and thousands of other pedestrians in Manhattan.

For a second, I expect someone to yell, "Just kidding!" and throw me back in the fridge. After almost a minute of standing stalk-still, I realize, no, we're actually here.

I look up and down the street. Blaring taxis, motorcyclists, people screaming at each other. Pedestrians hurry past, ignoring the two teenagers wearing uniform jackets with collars around their necks. Sidewalk vendors cry their wares. Snowflakes flutter down and patter on our skin.

Life. Everywhere.

I tip my head back and open my mouth. A flake melts on my tongue. I close my mouth and I grin at Damien, and he grins back, actually grins.

"Let's go!" he yells, and grabs my hand and starts to tug me through the crowd. Even though we're both wearing gloves, I can still feel the pressure of his fingers twisting with mine. My face flushes bright red. Hopefully I can pass it off as the wind slapping against my skin, and not as me being actually touched or shy. Because I would never feel those emotions. Never. Ever. I'm too manly.

"Wait." I pull him close to me and hiss into his ear. "Shouldn't we find a phone and contact Kyle?"

"No," he says. "Not yet."

"Why ze 'ell not?"

"Because I want to have at least one happy memory with you. Just . . . in case . . . ."

Snow coats his shoulders and his shoulder-length black hair. All of a sudden he looks alone.

"Okay." I squeeze his hand. "Let's go, zen."

I know the soldiers are following us, but it still feels like it's just us two teenagers making our way through the sidewalk. We can go wherever we want. We can do wherever we want.

Okay, we can't go wherever we want and do whatever we want, but it still seems like we can.

We duck into a Goodwill and start to burrow through their clothing selection. We're both wearing standard-issue winter uniforms (black jacket, black trousers, black gloves) and Damien insists that they're hideously out of style, although I can't tell. I tease him and call him a cocksucker when he has to find _absolutely the right pair of jeans_.

We leave the Goodwill with us both donning scarf's. He wears dark jeans, a Green Day t-shirt (although he didn't even know what Green Day is, and I had to tell him) and a ridiculous gay (but stylish, according to him) black coat. I manage to find my preferred camouflage pants, combat boots, an olive green t-shirt, and a brown jacket. There is even a pair of fingerless gloves. Not great apparel for a date, sure, but neither of us are particularly concerned with what the other looks like, and I feel almost like a person again in my preferred apparel.

Next Damien has to get a haircut. We make stupid jokes about the hairdresser's boobs while she works, but hidden under innuendos so she has no idea what we're talking about. When she finishes he looks even more emo and more gay than before. I make fun of him again as we walk hand-in-hand to the food court.

Then we have a ketchup-eating competition. That is, to see who can eat the grossest thing with ketchup. I only manage a ketchup-and-soda mix. Damien pours it all over his ice cream and licks the dish clean.

In return for him winning, I have to tell him that yes, his outfit totally looks awesome and the emo look suits him. Then I mutter "_beetch_" under my breath, which makes him grab me, push up against the nearest convenient wall, and tickle me until I'm hiccupping. Then when I'm half-unconscious from air loss, he peppers my face with quick kisses (avoiding my lips on purpose) and before I can protest, carries me off to the mall theater. I poke fun at him for being cheesy but he ignores me with a determined expression on his face.

We don't see a wimpy romantic dramedy, oh no, we go to an all-out gory war film. Ignoring the fact we've engaged in most of the horror on screen before, we snicker at the actors' awkwardness and terrible dialogue. The blood spatter makes us laugh our asses off, even when the other movie-viewers are cringing in fright.

The movie ends a little bit after nine. We leave the mall. The two of us chatter about the stupidity of the leads as we stroll through the snowy sidewalks. Eventually the conversation deteriorates into cliché sex jokes on my part, cheesy pickup lines on Damien's part, and flirting on both sides.

We end up in central park. We're quite a bit colder in our purchased clothing than the discarded uniforms would be, so we huddle together for warmth. When I glance around us, we appear to be alone. Everyone's heading down to Times Square to watch the ball drop. I know the soldiers are out there, somewhere. The collar around my neck is constant reminder.

We find a bench and flop down, leaning against each other. The city smog and snow clouds obscure the stars and moon, so we just watch the snow tapper down on us, white flecks vivid against the night. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and our smoke rings fill the sky. We start a stupid argument over who would win in a death fight, Dracula or Buffy. I win after a forty-minute debate that involves us quoting lines from memory and reenacting scenes.

(Dracula would so kick ass).

I'm starting to shiver, so we make the unanimous decision to head back to find somewhere warn to hang out. I stand up and start for the path, but then Damien lobs a snowball at me.

"Ze 'ell?" I demand.

He's grinning, but the expression fades when he sees my incredibly unamused expression. "Uh . . . snow? Snowballs?"

"I already said I was cold, asshole. You deedn't need to 'elp eet along."

"Uh . . . sorry."

I glower at him and stomp off out of central park. He trails after me, muttering words I don't understand under his breath. I elbow my way through the usual pedestrian crowds once we hit the street, and into the nearest Starbucks.

Since I insisted on paying for our food-court experience and the movie, I'm out of cash. I plop down at the last open table for two while he stands in line. He buys an Americano for himself and then gets me a mocha with enough whipped cream and sugary junk for it to taste more like high fructose corn syrup than coffee. He knows me well enough to have figured out how to soothe my love-hate relationship with caffeine.

I relent when I realize I'm being kind of a whiney bitch. Also, he carries my drink over to me. "All right, I forgive you. Your apology ees accepted."

He grins and sits across from me. "Sweet."

The other people in the Starbucks chattering amongst themselves. Everyone is jumpy with excitement. The ball will drop in less than an hour and a half. We just sit and sip in silence, in peace.

"Wonder where Kyle and ze ozzers are right now," I muse.

He shoots me a look that says _careful, _but I've been eyeing the people inside the coffee shop for the past twenty minutes. None of them are low Heavenfilth.

"Probably waiting for our call," he admits.

I finger the collar around my neck. "Zink zey weel be able to get zese off?"

He reaches across the table and grabs my hand in a totally cheesy romantic gesture. "I'm sure."

He's lying. But then he squeezes my hand and just looks at me, and I want to believe him.

We leave the shop a bit past eleven. As we walk closer to Times Square, it becomes more and more difficult to push through the crowd. We end up squashed against each other, laughing our retarded heads off as the elbows and knees jam into us.

There's a break in crowd. We wriggle around until we can see the ball, a hundred feet above our heads. It buzzes with bright light. People around us are screaming and singing and laughing.

Life. Everywhere.

We stand there for a minute, holding hands, looking up at the ball. There are too many people around us generating body heat to feel the cold, even though our breaths fog in the air.

"Damien," I say, "I 'ave somezing to tell you."

He raises his eyebrows and waits.

"I . . . I don't know 'ow to say zis," I admit.

"Oh my god," he says. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"

He must take my _What. The. Fuck. _stare as confirmation, because he continues.

"Oh, god, Christophe, I'm so sorry. Look, I can explain. You know how God impregnated Virgin Mary with just like – 'wazaam, you're pregnant? Well, my dad can do it too, but he did it by accident with me, and he did it with one of his gay lovers from a while ago. I asked him a couple years ago and he says I can do it too. So I probably did it by accident, and oh, god, I'm sorry, Christophe, but I just want you to know it's going to be okay. I'm not going to ditch you just because you're a pregnant male, and we'll raise it together if you want, and-"

"What ze fuck are you talking about?"

He stops. "Wait, you're not pregnant?"

"No." I continue to stare at him. "Fuck. I am male. I am fucking male. Zis ees one of ze advantages of being fucking male. We cannot get pregnant. I am not pregnant. I cannot be fucking pregnant. Zis goes against all biology and logic."

"Oh, thank god." He rubs his temples. "Phew. Scared me for a second."

"Eef I ever find out you 'ave impregnated me, I will fucking castrate you."

"Sounds fair."

"Wiz a butter knife."

"Errrk . . . okay."

I roll my eyes and lean against him, hugging his arm to my body. Since we've been standing still for a few minutes, I'm starting to feel the cold again. I shift from foot to foot to get my blood flowing.

"What were you going to say?"

"Um . . . never mind."

"Aw, Christophe, tell me!" He starts to tickle me again. I squeak, which makes him laugh for a solid minute. Goddamn it, why did he have to find out about that?

"Give me a minute. I still am not quite sure 'ow to say zis."

He waits.

"All right. I am ready." I take a deep breath. "Look, all my life, I 'ave suffered zrough a lot of sheet. I 'ave been tortured and beaten and raped and abused and abandoned and forced to kill and zreatened wiz deaz again and again."

He winces as I speak, but holds my gaze.

"You're right, I 'ave just been surviving my whole life. Ever since ze Yardale School bought me, I 'ave belonged to zem in more ways zan one. But now . . ." I rub my temples impatiently. "Obviously zere ees lots of bullsheet going on and we are not safe yet and I doubt we ever weel be. And een all my life, I 'ave never actually been 'appy."

He looks like he's about to contradict me, but I wave a hand to shut him up.

"But I zink right now in zis moment . . . maybe . . alzough we are still een danger . . . I zink right now I might be 'appy. Just zis once. And you make me feel zis 'appiness."

The look he gives me makes everything go flutter. I realize I want this. I want Damien right next to me forever. I want Damien to feel the same way I feel right now.

And when his lips curve up, I think maybe he does.

We don't notice when the ball starts to drop or people start screaming and chanting, "Twenty-twelve! Twenty-twelve! Twenty-twelve!" We don't notice as confetti flutters around us and a bajillion other couples start making out.

My fingers are tangled in his hair. His hands grip at my jacket, pulling my close to him until it feels like we've morphed into a single entity. Our lips press together.

We kiss out of desperation. Necessity. And something else, I think. Something not born from the torture the Yardale School has put us through. Something born from whom we are as people and who we are to each other.

To me, a kiss is best when it isn't sexual in nature. A kiss is best when it's just a person and a person. Together.

To me, a kiss means _I am here for you and I trust you,_ which is exactly how I feel about Damien.

* * *

We make our way over to telephone booth. I know once the soldiers see us talking on the phone, they'll immediately try to stop us. We stick to the crowd so they can't just beat us up and drag us away.

I stick money into the machine and tap my foot. Damien waits outside the booth, ready to incapacitate the soldiers. Kyle answers after the second ring.

"Dude," he says. "You were making out with antichrist."

"We were not making out," I retort, leaning back against one of the walls.

"You so were. We've been watching you guys for like twenty minutes. Seaver has crazy good binoculars. Anyway, we're on a roof a couple blocks away. Make your way east down forty-second street and we'll meet you on the ground floor."

"Zey will start shocking us soon."

"Fuck. Okay, okay, we'll start running towards you. Try to stall."

I duck out of the telephone booth. Damien has his back up against the nearby brick wall. There's a small break in the crowd around the booth. "They're coming," he mutters.

I glance at the crowd. They all seem like the same pulsating, swelling mass of humans to me, but my nose picks up the reek of Heavenfilth.

"Fuck."

Two soldiers push their way through the crowd and stand in front of us. "Come quietly and we won't have to hurt you," one of them snaps.

Damien rolls his head and kicks him in the chest. The man flies back in the crowd, swallowed up by bodies. The other one pulls a remote from his jacket but I snatch it from him and break it in half before he can push any buttons. Then I slam a punch into his face. Feels good to break some of these assholes' bones. He screams and grabs at his bloody face. My knee goes up into his chest and he topples to the ground, moaning.

"Down forty-second street," I say.

He nods, grabs my wrist, and starts to pull me through the crowd. We're almost free of people when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

It's another one of the soldiers. "Come quietly and we won't have to hurt you," she says.

"Zat deedn't work last time." I clock her in the cheek. Her head jerks back and her grip on me loosens. I shake myself free and Damien and I take off running.

We break free of the crowd. Pedestrians still swarm around us, but now we can move without hindrance. Our pace picks up; rapid, frantic. So close. So fucking close.

I see the blue sparks shoot up Damien's spine and have half a second to yell, "_Sheeeett_!" before the electricity spikes over him and he drops to his knees, screaming.

"_Sheeeet_!" I bend down next to him and try to help him back up. Then the electricity hits me, too, a shocking, blinding pain that clouds my senses and leaves everything a blur. When my senses return someone has their arms under my shoulders and is dragging me off. Handcuffs yank my hands behind my back.

"You're gonna get it now, kid," a soldier hisses into my ear. My gaze focuses and unfocuses. I manage to make out the alley walls around us. Helicopter blades beat in the distance.

No. _So close!_

I try to twist from his grasp. Fingers dig into my skin and don't let go no matter how much I struggle. I tilt my head back to see the grim face of a low Heavenfilth soldier. He sneers down at me.

I twist and swing my legs around, which jerks me out of his grasp. My legs smash into his ankles, toppling him. My momentum makes me roll across the alley. I jump up and survey my surroundings. Where the hell is Damien?

I look up at the sound of the helicopter. There, on the roof, another soldier is dragging his semi-conscious form towards the chopper. Damien's gaze falls on me. I hear him mutter, "run," before the soldier deposits him into the helicopter.

"No!"

There are about twenty other soldiers milling around the alley, their eyes on me. One of them pulls a remote.

"All right," I say, shrugging my shoulders, even though it's difficult to move with my hands behind my back like this. "I will come wiz you."

To emphasize, I start walking for the fire escape leading up to the roof. The soldiers flank behind me as I make my way up.

The wind around me yanks at my clothing. The helicopter blades beat in a heavy rhythm. New York City sprawls around us, lights twinkling like stars. I duck into the helicopter.

Damien sits up with his back against the wall, his gaze foggy. "Get out of here," he whispers to me.

"Not wizzout you."

A few of the soldiers start to enter through the open door. I feel the helicopter buzzing in preparation to take off.

I watch the soldier with the ring of keys on his belt. The chopper starts to rise into the air. All of their eyes are on Damien and me. Fuck, I need a distraction.

"Kyle!" I yell. "Kyle, get your ass over 'ere!"

All of the soldiers glance outside the helicopter. Morons. I tackle the soldier with the ring of keys and steal the ring of keys from him with my teeth. His fist catches me in the face, so I spit down on him before jumping off him. Damien's already on his feet. We brush through the soldiers' outstretched hands and leap out the helicopter.

It's an eight-foot drop and I land on my shoulder. I grit my teeth and hold in my cry of pain. I spit the ring of keys into Damien's handcuffed hands. He grabs a key at random and I turn around to give him better access to my handcuffs. I hear him growl in frustration, but adrenaline spurns us on and in less than ten seconds he's found the right key.

My handcuffs pop off. I turn and free him as well. The soldiers in the helicopter are shouting their usual, "Come quietly and we won't hurt you!" I pull Damien to his feet and we ignore them with feverish determination.

We're halfway to the edge of the roof when I see the blue sparks start to dance along the edge of Damien's collar. I let out a scream of frustration and when he starts to fall from the electrical shock, I haul him over my shoulder, even though he outweighs me by about forty pounds and we're both panting with desperation.

The electrical shock hits me, but I've already jumped off the roof.

Dimly, I feel my bones crack from the impact, but the screaming electrical shock blocks out everything else. I can't feel anything but the burning, absolute agony.

When my senses return, my face is pressed into Damien's knee, and someone with hellish power is healing me.

I roll over and the golden glow leaves me. I scream. The person healing me puts their hands back on my torso and the magic fills me again.

"Kyle?" I croak, because I would recognize that frizzy mass of red hair anywhere.

He grins down me. "S'up, Chris."

I close my eyes. "Finish 'ealing me, _beetch_." So Kyle Broflovski can use magic now. This is rather depressing, because he's probably been learning it for about the same amount of time as me and I still can't control when I use it.

My bones creak as they knit back together. I hear Damien muttering next to me. After another minute, I sit up. My head spins. And I'm immediately aware of the fact that there's nothing chafing my neck.

My hands go for the collar but it's gone. There's just the leather cord Maria gave to me as a present for my birthday all those years ago. Damien sits up and slouches against me. His collar is gone, too.

"Seaver showed us how to do it," Kyle explains. "He told us to pump you two full of magic until the collar exploded."

I notice bits of metal on the ground and nod with grim satisfaction. "Zank you."

"No problemo, dude." Stan, who was the one healing Damien, stands up and stretches out his arms. I hear screams and shouting from up above us, and then an explosion.

"What's happening?" I demand.

"Seaver and a couple other demons are fighting the soldiers who were going to drag you back to . . . Seaver said it was called 'Yardale', right? Don't worry dude, it's all going to be okay."

Damien rises until he's standing straight. The grin stretching across his lips clashes with the murderous look to his eyes. I shiver.

"Don't let them kill all the soldiers on their own," he says. "I want a piece of them, too."

"Not wizzout me." I push myself up. Kyle and Stan wear identical expressions of horror. Cartman and Kenny stand against the alley wall. Dear god, Cartman with magical powers. I make a mental note to watch out for him.

"Guys, wait, wait." Kyle grabs my arm. I shake him off.

Then a man with a stubble-coated chin and a scarred-up face jumps off the roof and lands in a crouch. He reeks of bitter copper. The South Park boys do, too, I realize. Now that they've awakened their magical powers they smell like typical hellspawn.

Several other men and women drop down next to the scar-faced man. They take one look at Damien and drop into a bow.

"It is my honor, my prince." Scar-face ducks his head. "I am General Seaver." Blood coats his arms and legs.

"Greetings, general." Damien crosses his arms and stands closer to me.

"Do you wish us to dispose of the heavenfilth?" he asks.

"No, he is my consort."

I stare at Damien.

"These guys aren't going to be happy with you any other way," he mutters under his breath. I scowl.

"Yes, my prince. We have disposed of the disgusting heavenfilth who tried to recapture you. Now, may we return to Hell and safety for you?"

Before Damien can respond, a pedestrian turns down the alleyway. Her mouth opens wide when she sees General Seaver coated with blood.

"Oh . . . my . . . god . . . " she breathes out. Then she turns and starts to run, screaming for the police.

Seaver moves so fast he almost blurs. His right arm goes around the woman's neck. He yanks and her head comes off with a _pop!_ and hits the ground. Seaver releases the body and steps back. Her body hits the alley floor.

The South Park boys are all staring with horror, except Cartman, who looks thrilled.

"Why the hell did you do that, dude?" Kyle gasps.

Seaver raises an eyebrow. "She was going to get other people. She was a threat, the same as the heavenfilth soldiers. We killed them, too."

"Yeah . . . but . . . she was innocent . . . "

Two teenage boys turn the corner into the alley, one of them saying, "hey, is everything okay-" He stops when he sees the woman's body.

And then Seaver kills them both, popping off their heads without expending an ounce of effort.

"Stop it!" Kyle screams. "Stop it! What the hell are you doing? Stop it!"

Kenny steps forward, his fists raised, and Stan and Kyle back him up.

"You seem to be misunderstanding something," Seaver says, his lips curved in a smile. "This entire city is Heaven-Allied. That means the majority of the people here are heaven-allied. That means we're going to end up killing them all, anyways."

"I thought you guys were just trying to win the war," Stan whispers.

"Of course we are." Seaver rolls his eyes. "Win the war and win earth. And it's not like we want to deal with any living humans when we're on earth. Hell is getting overcrowded. We need the room for its populace. And once they're dead they're of our population anyway, so it's all good."

"But . . . they're dead . . ." Kyle's fists are shaking. "The hell, Seaver?" he screams. "Couldn't have mentioned your plan to kill the entire population of earth when you first saved us? There are six billion people on earth, bastard! Six billion fucking people!"

"There are more in hell," he says with a laugh.

"No. Screw this. Screw you." He grabs Kenny and Stan's wrists. "Cartman, don't you dare fucking go with him."

"Okay, okay, sheesh," Cartman says. "If they kill everyone then there won't be any more cheesy poofs."

"We're going to stop you, bastard," Kyle snarls. He starts to drag Kenny and Stan down the alleyway, Cartman trailing behind them. Seaver watches them go with an amused raised eyebrow.

He thinks they're going to come back to Hell's side, anyways, I realize. And he's sort of right. What else can they do, join Heaven's side? They'd be killed within seconds.

"Little brothers," Damien muses, raking his fingers through his hair. He gives me an amused smirk. I don't return it. His expression drops.

"I'm sorry about the deserters, my prince," Seaver says. "Shall we return to Hell, and your father?" He goes to stand besides the other demons.

"My father . . . " Damien's eyes light up, like a small child who's been away for too long.

I turn and start to walk after Kyle.

"Christophe?" he demands. "Christophe, what the hell are you doing?"

I turn back to glare at him. "You are not seriously considering going with zese assholes, are you?" I hiss.

"Well, he's –"

"We just watched 'im kill zree people. 'E 'as undoubtedly killed 'undreds more."

"I've killed people, too," he says quietly. "Remember the angel?"

"You only killed zat angel because eet would 'ave gotten you killed eef you 'ad not."

"That's the same reason Seaver killed those three. Because he has to kill them for their side to win."

I grit my teeth and clench my fists in frustration. "Are you fucking kidding me? Listen to yourself! You are trying to justify murdering people. I 'ave killed people before, but zat was because zey were zreatening me directly. And I know you 'ave killed innocents before to protect yourself, but you are not ze same as you used to be, and you would never do what 'e just deed. I know you. I fucking know you. You are not ze asshole you make yourself out to be."

"Don't speak to our prince like that-" one of the demons starts.

"Shut ze fuck up. Damien, you are not going wiz zese people. You are not. Zey are monsters and murderers."

"But my father-"

"Your fazzer abandoned you. 'E ees a monster. Zese people are all monsters. You're not and don't pretend like you are. I am not going wiz zeese murderers, so, please." I meet his gaze. "Please. Come wiz me, Damien."

I could spew some bullshit about all the things we've done, all we've sacrificed, but I know it won't change anything. I could tell him how I need him, how he can't make everything I've done to make sure he survives all for nothing. I could tell him how I'm not free without him.

But I don't, because it won't matter what I say. All that matters is his choice, right here, right now.

He'll walk away. He'll leave me to struggle to survive on my own, just like Maria and Chase and Gregory did all those years ago. Because he might speak of living and freedom, but following through with it is much harder, because you have to be willing to sacrifice everything.

So I wait.

And then he turns back to look at Seaver. "I . . . this is my side of the war." He says it to Seaver, but the words are meant for me. "This is . . . "

My throat closes. I shake my head, my shaggy dark brown hair falling into my eyes. "Fine," I mutter. "Whatever. I do not care."

I start to walk down the alley after Kyle and the others. My eyes burn, and I tell myself it's because I'm tired. I shouldn't have expected anything else. I'm too strong to cry, I _am_, I swear I am.

"Christophe!"

And then Damien flies into me, knocking me back. I hit the ground. The air flies out of me. I gasp for breath. He straddles me, grabs the fabric of my shirt, and buries his face into my shoulder,

"_You are not leaving me,"_ he growls. "_You are never fucking leaving me, you got that_?"

I'm still struggling for air, and when he kisses me it makes it even harder to breath. I decide air isn't really that important, and kiss him back.

A minute later, he helps me to my feet. We simultaneously flip off Seaver, who is looking much less amused now.

"Let's get out of here," Damien says. I couldn't agree more.


	21. Chapter 21

This is part one of chapter twenty-one. Part two will be uploaded within a few days, but I got halfway through the chapter and was completely sickened by it. (Not the content – it's not too bad this time – I'm just not good with PTSD). I don't pretend to understand how PTSD works. If anyone has any advice for making it more realistic, please tell me. Any feedback on the disorder will greatly aid me in The-Writing-of-Part-Two-of-Chapter-21.

I also don't bother to translate to French most of the time. It has been pointed out to me that my French sucks. I fully admit to using google translate (although my Spanish is better). Just . . . if I say they're speaking French, they're speaking French, okay?

Please just tolerate this chapter. Part two is much better, I swear.

Music:

Handlebars (Flobots)

Kill All Your Friends (MCR) (Yes, I love MCR)

Lie to Me (12 Stones)

* * *

It's three twenty-six in the morning in Lyon, France. The dark is so thick Adrienne Simon can barely see the gun pointed between her eyes.

She drops the glass of water she woke up to fetch. The glass shatters across the kitchen floor. She doesn't move, frozen with fear, staring down the barrel of a Glock 19.

The seven-year-old boy leans back against the cupboards and readjusts his position on the kitchen counter. A shovel is strapped over his back. Cuts and bruises and scars coat his skin. His legs swing back and forth, hitting the drawers below him. His dark eyes narrow as he stares at Adrienne.

"_Bonjour, maman_," he says.

She stumbles away until her back hits the wall. The boy swings himself off the counters and steps to the floor. He avoids the broken glass as he walks towards her.

"Christophe?" she breathes.

"Eet 'as been a while," he agrees in English. "And you 'ave obviously been doing well." He gestures his head to indicate the grand house around them.

"Christophe . . . oh, my poor leettle boy –"

"Cut ze bullsheet," he snaps. "You're ze one who fucking sold me and Owen. You 'ave no right to pretend you care about me."

"Owen-"

"'E 'as been dead for monzs. Don't wear zat pazetic expression; eet doesn't look good on you. You sold 'im. You sold 'im and you knew 'e would die, so stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"Christophe," Adrienne tries again. "Can you . . . can you drop ze gun, sweetie?"

"Shut ze fuck up. Listen to me. I don't want to 'ear you talk. You're moving 'ouse. When I am done talking to you, go grab _pére_ and tell 'im I am 'ere. I will give 'im ze same talk I give you, but I want to take you beetches one at a time for now." He scrutinizes her. "We are moving, understand zat? I don't want to live een France anymore and zis ees ze first place zey will look for me."

"Who?" she manages.

"Ze people you sold me to, who else, idiot?" he snaps. He trains the gun on her. The barrel is centimeters from her nose. "I really do not want to go back to zat fucking place. I 'ave a contact who will get us new names and 'elp you transfer all ze money you got from fucking selling us."

"My son, please," she whispers, close to tears. "I don't understand, what 'as 'appened to you, why are you like zis-"

The gun presses against her cheek. She chokes down a whimper of panic. Her son's eyes are crazy and dark.

"Understand zis, maman," he hisses. "You sold me. Zey broke me. I put myself back togezer and now I am 'ere and I don't want to go back. I zink after fucking selling me and my dead twin brozzer into slavery, you are going to listen to me for once. Now, go get papa."

* * *

"Ees eet ready?"

"Yes. You'll meet my contact with the plane tickets."

"Zank you, Monsieur Hendrickson."

Christophe presses the phone against his ear with his shoulder while Jordan's father continues to give him instructions. He's hiding in a broom closet while his parents pack up their belongings.

Jordan's father works in a law firm, but his younger brother is a professional computer programmer with some hacker tendencies. Christophe crashed with Jordan's family for a day. According to Jordan, his father had first been angry about their mother's arrest, but eventually had accepted what had happened as best for the family as whole. It sounds angsty and dramatic and Christophe is glad he was not there for any of it.

"At ze airport een two 'ours?" he confirms.

"Yes." Mr. Hendrickson hesitates. "Christophe . . . I don't know if I can ever thank you for saving my son and daughter, even though you are just a child yourself . . ."

Christophe laughs dryly. "I am not just a child, Monsieur, but zank you very much for all your 'elp." He didn't even know how to do a google search. Jordan had suggested the idea of looking through the web for mentions of "missing Christophe Simon." Without them he would have had no idea where his parents even lived. Even though the Hendricksons knew so little about him, they still aided him.

"Have you decided on a location yet?"

Christophe glances down at the atlas in his lap. The section on the US is the largest because America produced the book. None of the states feel _right._ He knows they're all contaminated by angels. Angels everywhere, ready to drag him back.

He doesn't know it's his magic directing him to open the map up to page on Colorado and trace his fingers over a tiny town in the mountains. He doesn't know his magic automatically steers him towards the one town in the world without any of heaven's influence.

"What ees zis . . . 'ow about Souz Park?"

He hears Mr. Hendrickson typing away. "Ah, it's a tiny little town. My brother's gesturing at me. He says it's fine. He says he'll get you an average-sized house to avoid suspicion. Sorry you can't look through them; you're on a schedule, correct?"

"_Oui_." He and his parents have to get out of here as soon as possible. He's certain the Yardale School is already sending people here to look for him. He's only been gone for two days and they're probably frantic.

"Alright. My contact with the tickets will have your passports and fake IDs. When you get to Newark, New Jersey, you'll meet a man with a red scarf and blue sunglasses. He'll have a paper history for you to keep on your persons, cash, credit cards, and your new addresses, as well as a flight out to Denver."

He pauses.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"_Oui_."

"Be careful, Christophe."

"I always am."

* * *

It's almost frightening how easily it happens.

They take their fake IDs and their fake papers and their fake money. Christophe Simon becomes Christophe DeLorn. His parents play along, afraid he'll turn them into the police and reveal what they did. He keeps his shovel on him during the flight and sneaks the gun onto the plane through sheer innocence, as 9/11 hasn't happened yet and the security isn't as rigid as it will be in a few years.

His parents are afraid of him. He can see it in the way they avoid contact, the way they won't meet his eyes, the way they address him with shaking voices.

He honestly doesn't care anymore.

Their new house is small and cramped compared to the grandeur his parents lived in before. The first thing his parents do when they arrive is go out shopping for new furniture to fill the house with. They invite him to come along, of course, but he declines.

It's snowing here. He has a jacket – one of Jordan's – and he tugs it tighter around his body as he heads out into the town. The house is too quiet with no one in it except for him.

He keeps the shovel strapped around his body as he walks. He has a twenty in his pocket for food. He hasn't eaten since Jordan's house, a day and a half and several time zones ago. He hasn't gone into a store and bought items for months and months. He doesn't want to buy food, though. He's afraid he'll screw up. What if they catch his accent and they know he doesn't belong and they turn him over to the cops and-

He forces himself to calm down. He has a new name and a computer background, courtesy of Jordan's uncle. And if the Yardale School does track him down, then he'll just have to run again.

There's a group of girls building a snowman. They seem to be about his age. They're chattering and teasing and poking fun at each other. One of them has a purple beret; another has long curly hair; the third has dyed red hair. He stops on the sidewalk next to the lawn where they play and just stares at them for a few seconds.

"Ewww, it's a boy!" the red-haired one says.

"Don't be such a freak," the one with the beret chastises. She smiles as Christophe. "You must be new in town. I'm Wendy, nice to meet you!"

He stares at her. She stares back at him. He remembers this is the part where he's supposed to introduce himself.

"Oh . . . 'ello . . . I am Christophe . . . I suppose eet ees nice to meet you."

"Ohmigod, he has such a cute accent!" the curly-haired one shrieks. "That's way too cute. Ohmigod, where are you from?"

He panics for a few seconds before remembering to answer, "France."

"That is so awesome," the curly-haired one says. "You want some hot chocolate?"

"Hey, it's my house!" the red-haired one says.

"Girls," Wendy says, "he's a newcomer so we have to be nice to him!"

Eventually, the red-haired one, aptly named "Red", invites him inside. He refuses to put down his shovel even when he's teased for keeping it on. Red's mother is home, and she makes them all hot chocolate from instant mix.

He hasn't ever tasted hot chocolate before. It's sweet enough to make his eyes widen. He perches in the far seat of the table, at least a seat away from each of the girls, and next to the sliding glass door. If worst comes to worst, he can smash the glass door with his shovel, dive through, and take off running.

"So, what's it like in France?" Wendy slurps on her own hot chocolate.

He tenses up for a second.

They all stare at him expectantly.

"Ummmm . . . same as 'ere, we just speak French." Why is he still here? He should be back at his new house, setting up tripwire.

"Are you gonna go to the school here?" the curly-haired one, Bebe, asks cheerfully.

"_Non_." No fucking way is he going to school ever again.

"Where you going to go to school then?"

"Why ees eet so important to you?" he snaps. Maybe she's trying to figure out more about him so she can sell all of his secrets on the Internet. Oh god, all they need is one picture to get out and Yardale will find out in a heartbeat.

"I just was making conversation and trying to get to know you!" Bebe whines. "God, Christophe, you're such a freak!"

"Fuck you, beetch!"

He lurches to his feet, glaring at her, fists held up. She shrinks back, and he almost savors the expression of fear in her eyes. Almost.

"Fuck zis," he growls, and storms out of Red's house.

His boots crunch into the snow as he stomps back to his new home. He fumes under his breath. His skin still crawls. His lips still taste of hot chocolate.

There are four little boys roughhousing with each other. The little boy in the brown jacket with black hair shoves the boy with the green Ushanka. Green Ushanka yelps and shoves back. They dissolve into play fighting. When they end up on the ground panting for breath, they'll both laughing, the other two little boys laughing with them.

They must catch Christophe staring at them, because the boy with the red jacket yells, "Oi, fag, whatcha watching?"

Christophe flips them off and half-runs back to his new house. His parents still aren't back, so he runs up to the second-story room he's designated as his own and hides in the closet. With his legs curled up to his chest and his face buried in his arms, he can almost start to relax. Nothing can find him in here. His shovel is next to him just in case.

He doesn't get it. He doesn't get how they can shove at each other and still laugh. Fighting isn't fun. Fighting hurts. Fighting ends with one person getting their head bashed in and the other person standing over them.

* * *

A few days later when his new bed arrives, he decides the best hiding place in the house is curled up under it. He never actually uses the mattress. So when his screams in the middle of the night wake his parents, they have to drag him out to make him shut up.

"Go away!" he screams. "Just get out of my sight!"

They leave him because they don't know what to do with him.

* * *

These are his days.

He wakes up and drags himself downstairs to eat breakfast. His parents, who have obtained jobs, head out for work. They don't hire a sitter because he doesn't need one.

He looks around South Park and finds it to be quiet, if rather crazy. He stays away from the other children. He can't stand the way they smile and laugh. It sickens him.

He'll return back to their home. He tries to learn to read English but finds the language infuriating. He checks a book of French Poetry out from the library and digs through it day-by-day.

He rarely eats lunch. Instead, he heads out into the woods surrounding South Park and slinks through them, imagining he's on a training mission from the Yardale School. The though terrifies him, but it also comforts him at the same time, so he keeps doing it, day after day.

His parents return home and they eat dinner before him. He'll head down from his room at nine, ten at night to dig through the fridge for leftovers.

He'll sleep and wake up a sweating mess. He climbs up on the roof, the cold chafing at his skin, and wonders what Gregory's doing, if he's on the roof on the top of Yardale, planning an escape.

Of course not. They've given up, fully. They've let themselves be beaten into submission.

He _never_ will.

* * *

One night when he's walking through the town he smells blood. He's used enough to the coppery reek for it to make him freeze up. The stench is coming from a second-floor open window. He hears voices.

He climbs up the window and peeks inside.

There are four children sitting in the black-coated room, all dressed in dark clothing. Three boys and one girl. The girl has her arm out and she's dragging a knife over her wrist.

"Oh, god," she pants out. "Oh, god, it hurts so good."

She slices at her flesh again. The other children egg her on, ooing when the blood gush over her skin.

"This is so hardcore Goth," one of the boys, the one with curly hair, says.

"Do it again."

She cuts herself again, and she's smiling now, examining the blood and the knife and the-

Christophe's back hits the ground. The air flies out of him. His shovel digs into his back. He struggles to regain his breath. Eventually, he sits up and stares at the sidewalk around him.

He doesn't know about cutting, or Goth/emo subcultures, or why people would ever do that. He only knows that she was hurting herself, she was hurting herself and she was smiling.

_Just like Maria –_

_ No, that was not Maria that was not Maria that was not Maria!_

He scrambles to his feet and takes off running. He doesn't stop until he's safely hidden under his bed.

* * *

The next night he realizes he has not spoken for three weeks.

He's lying in his bed when he makes this realization, staring up the ceiling. It's past two in the morning and he can't sleep.

"Christophe," he says. His voice is cracked and rusty and mangles the words.

"Christophe," he says again.

"Christophe Simon."

* * *

The next morning, before she leaves for work, his mother stands above him as he eats his breakfast.

He glances up at her and waits for her to speak.

"You can't keep doing this," she says in French.

He shrugs.

"I've enrolled you in a private school. It will be good for you to socialize with other children."

He stares at her.

"I've talked to the counselor, and you'll be allowed to take your shovel. I told them you have had some deeply traumatic experiences, which, to the best of my knowledge, you _hav_e, and they're willing to make exceptions even if it could be interpreted as a dangerous weapon."

He keeps staring.

"Don't give me that look," she snaps.

"I am not going to school," he replies in the same language, and returns to his breakfast.

Her hands slam down on the table. He looks up to her seething rage.

"Do you have any idea what you've done to us?" she screams. "Your father and I were rich! We were rich and we were happy, and then you came along and fucked everything over!"

"You were only rich because of what you did to me!" he screams back. "You sold your own sons and you spent your blood money and pretended we never even existed!"

He jerks to his feet, pulling the shovel from his back. She grabs it from him and throws it aside, and forces him to sit back down.

"I know what we did was wrong," she hisses. One of her hands clenches his shoulder. "And we're trying to make it up to you by staying here with you. But we're sick of your sulking."

"Sulking?" His fists clench in front of him. "You have no idea-"

"You're right, Christophe, I don't, and that's because you won't tell us. So here's the deal; either you start behaving like a normal child again, and make the best of our situation, and go to fucking school, or I swear to God, your father and I will turn you over to the people we sold you to."

His skin crawls.

"You wouldn't."

"We would. We haven't yet because you're right, we were wrong and greedy. But we're here now and we've done as you said and god, what kind of child would pull a gun on their own parents?"

"I don't care if you call them. I'll run." He shakes her hand off his shoulder.

"They'll catch you."

"They'll never catch me," he hisses.

She draws back from him. "You can't keep running, Christophe. You can't live like this forever. You're going to school. It starts Monday." And with that she stalks out the house.

* * *

His mother drives him to the Saint Mary's School for Boys, in North Park. His black-and-white uniform itches. He tugs at the collar. His mother watches him in the mirror as she pulls into the parking lot.

"Be good, Christophe."

"_Oui_," he mutters.

The principal is an overly perky middle-aged woman, and he doesn't both to catch her name. She volunteers to take his shovel from him. He starts to swear at her and she firmly tells him he will be expelled if he keeps up this kind of thing. He shuts up.

He's going to be in the "special education" class because he can't read in English, and he has to meet with the school counselor twice a week to talk about all of his problems. Fuck.

She leads him to his class and deposits him in the doorway. He considers running down the hallway and never speaking to another person again. Instead he slinks into the classroom.

"Oh, hello," says an older man behind his desk at the front of the classroom. "You must be the transfer student. I'm your new teacher, Mr. Grant."

"_You have a new teacher, too, you know. Her name is Ms. Kingston."_

He watches the man warily and fingers the metal collar around his neck. Wait, he doesn't have a collar. He touches his neck to make sure. Good. Just his imagination.

"Why do you have a _shovel_?" one of the little boys shrieks.

"Quiet, quiet, class," Mr. Grant chastises. "Now, why don't you introduce yourself and tell us a little about you?"

He stares at the rows of eager seven-year-olds. They all wear the same black-and-white uniform. Some of them are sneering at him.

"Start with your name," Mr. Grant prompts.

". . ." He can't force the words out. _Oh, god, they can't make him talk, they can't, he won't let them, he won't let them_- He clamps down on the panic.

"Class, this is Christophe DeLorn," Mr. Grant says with a sigh. "Anything you'd like to say about yourself, Christophe? Something important?"

He shakes his head.

"Very well then. You may sit next to Kasey." He jerks his head at a ginger kid in the back corner of the classroom. Christophe slinks over to him and slings his shovel over the back of the chair. Kasey has his finger stuck up his nose. He stares at Christophe as he sits down.

Mr. Grant starts talking about addition, but Christophe is in a wave of panic. He pulls his pencils out of his book bag. Oh, god, they're not sharp. What if he needs to stab someone to death with them?

He decides if worst comes to worse, he'll use a pen on their eyes. He glances around the classroom. Next to him is a boy with longish black hair and an earring. Beyond that boy is a chubby kid who smirks at Christophe and drags a finger across his throat. Then he mouths, "_You're dead at recess."_ Christophe stares back at him.

Kasey is taking notes with the hand that's not stuck up his nose. He smiles at Christophe when he looks up. Christophe's hand trails over his shovel. This is not going to be fun.

* * *

Recess turns out to be hell disguised as play time.

Kasey is reading a comic book, curled up against the brick wall. Christophe stands a dozen feet away from him, his shovel on his back. He inspects the playground. Children are cheering and laughing. They fight over their turn at the slides, wrestle in the sandbox, take turns on the swings.

The chubby kid who Christophe now knows as Dustin and two of his friends stalk over to Kasey. Dustin stands over him and sneers down at him. Kasey looks up at him with wide blue eyes.

"God, what a little fag, reading all alone," Dustin spits out.

Christophe rolls his eyes but keeps his attention on the playground. They honestly can't think of any better insults?

Dustin calls Kasey a soulless ginger. Christophe sighs and returns his attention to inspecting the playground for possible escape routes.

A cry from Kasey alerts him thirty seconds later. He looks to see Kasey standing with his fists clenched in front of him, his teeth gritted. The other boys just laugh at him.

Dustin punches him in the stomach. Kasey hits the wall and slides down until his butt hits the pavement. He looks at Christophe and mouths "help me."

Christophe turns and walks back for the classroom, hoping the teacher will let him inside for the remainder twenty minutes of recess.

* * *

The teacher doesn't, so he scuttles behind the gymnasium in hopes of a hiding spot. He encounters the boy with longish black hair and earring. The boy is smoking. Christophe eyes him, and when the boy doesn't threaten him in any way, shape, or form, he leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.

"So," the boy says, "you're the new kid."

Fuck. Conversation. He opens his eyes and glares at him, hoping to convey his disdain.

The boy smirks. He sucks on his cigarette. "Well, then, let's not be friends."

Christophe nods in agreement.

"You don't talk much. I'm Mark." The boy sticks out a hand.

Christophe stares at it for a second before he remembers he's supposed to shake it.

"Teachers will catch us if we're not careful." Mark gestures with his cigarette.

"Us?"

Mark offers him a cigarette.

* * *

His full name is Marcus Wright and he has two older brothers. That's all Christophe leans about him in the next fifteen minutes of them mostly just smoking. He doesn't cough on his cigarette because he's had several before, but it still makes him want to choke. When the bell rings, signifying the end of recess, Mark snubs his cigarette out on the cement and Christophe follows suit with more than a little relief.

After school, his mother picks him up to drive him home.

"How was it?" she asks in French.

He gives her a pointed stare before scrambling into the passenger's seat.

"Come on, Christophe, give me something."

"I went," he spits out in English. "I went and I sat zrough six 'ours of eet, so don't 'arass me more about eet, all right?"

She takes the hint and steers out of the school parking lot. They're halfway home by the time he speaks up again.

"Eet's almost like . . . zat place."

"Ze place you were before?" she asks carefully.

"_Oui_."

She drives in silence for a few seconds.

"But eet ees not ze same, ees it?"

"Ze children 'ere are ze same. Zey are just not as inventive een zeir torture yet." He's looking out the window.

"Zis school eesn't like wherever you were," she says softly.

"_Oui_," he agrees. "At least 'ere, eet only last for six 'ours and zen I can go 'ome and 'ide."

* * *

The bullies attempt to make good on their promise to kill him at recess on his second day. He lets them hit him twice. Then he wriggles from their grasp and runs to hide in a tree.

He's scolded by a teacher for climbing trees. By then, recess is over, and they're all ushered back into their classes. He almost laughs at the infuriated expression on Dustin's face. Almost.

* * *

The third day he has an appointment with the counselor after school. He sits in silence while the counselor goes through his files.

After a minute or so of waiting, the counselor looks up, smiles, and says. "Hello there, Christophe! I'm Mr. Carter, your new counselor!"

He nods in greeting.

"How was your day?"

Christophe shrugs.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

Christophe glowers at him.

"Have you made any new friends?"

"_Oui_." He and Mark shared another cigarette at recess today. Then, during the lunch break, Mark helped him hide from Dustin's gang, who were still infuriated that they couldn't get a reaction out of him. He guesses this counts as friendship.

Mr. Carter attempts to make small talk with him for several more minutes. Finally, he gets down to business.

"Christophe, I want you to know you can trust me."

He stares at him blankly.

"And I'm just going to talk with you, and I'm not going to hurt you, and I'm not going to tell anyone what you say."

"Not even my mozzer?"

"Not even her."

Christophe is silent.

"You can trust me."

"Stop saying zat."

Mr. Carter raises an eyebrow. "That you can trust me? But it's true-"

"Stop. Saying. Eet."

_He's lying, they're lying, they're all lying, he can't trust any of them_ –

"Okay, I won't say it." Mr. Carter folds his hands in front of him. "So, Christophe, your mother tells me you were kidnapped for several months."

He jerks his head up and down in affirmation.

"They don't really know much about what happened to you in that time." Mr. Carter pushes his glasses further up on his nose. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I don't want to talk about eet."

"Okay." Mr. Carter raises his hands in defeat. "Let's talk about your new friends, okay?-"

* * *

The next day at recess, Christophe is heading for the gymnasium to receive his cigarette from Mark. Before he can turn the corner, he's stopped by Dustin and his gang.

He scowls and doesn't say anything. His hands twitch in instinct; he wants to reach back and grab his shovel for defense. Instead, he sticks his hands into his pocket and glowers at them in preparation for more of their pointless attempts at bullying him.

His back ends up against the wall. Dustin gets in his face, fist raised. Christophe doesn't blink.

"Goddamn it!" Dustin steps back and Christophe expects him to fly into rage. Instead, he grins and pulls a sheaf of papers out from under his shirt.

"Wanna know what zis ees, Christophe?" Dustin sneers out, mimicking his accent.

"Not particularly."

"All right, I'll tell you. I stole Mr. Carter's counselor notes about you. Wanna hear what he has to say?"

Christophe holds back his gasp. "I don't care."

The other boys in Dustin's gang snicker.

"Okaaaaay, then." Dustin holds up the paper and reads aloud in a scholarly tone. "Ahem. 'Christophe DeLorn is clearly suffering from PTSD – that's post-traumatic-stress-disorder, if ya didn't know that. Not much is known about what happened to him while he was captured . . . probably sexual abuse and torture-"

"Shut eet," Christophe snaps, his fists clenching in spite of himself.

"Wanna know what the psycho – phys-" He stumbles over the word – " psychological effects of 'child sexual abuse' are, Christophe? I looked 'em up all on my own, even. Here we go. 'affects include depression, low self-esteem, dissociative and anxiety disorders, eating disorders, self-destructive behavior, including suicide-" He looks up with a pouting expression. "Aww, poor little Christophe. Don't kill yourself just cuz some paedo stuck his dick up your ass." He sniggers and the other boys laugh. "Treatment for-"

"_Shut ze fuck up_!" Christophe screams. "_Just shut up! Just shut up!"_

He knows their names and he knows it's Dustin in front of him, but somehow he still looks like Jorge, and he has to kill him and eat his heart all over again.

He yanks his shovel over his shoulder and slams it into Dustin's ribs. Dustin goes down screaming. One of the other boys lunges for him and he jams the end into his stomach. He's about to smash Dustin's skull in when a teacher grabs him around the neck and drags him back.

"_Let me go_!" he screams, writhing in her grasp and she hauls him to the principal's office. "_Let me go let me go let me go I 'ave to kill 'im_!"

* * *

He earns himself two weeks' suspension, and he's warned it's only because of his Special Circumstances (and, yes, the principal really does say it like this – with capitol letters) that he isn't expelled.

His mother drives him home with pursed lips and clenched, whitening fingers. When they're almost to the house, she says, "Why ze 'ell deed you do zat?"

"Zey were zreatening me."

"So you 'ad to almost kill zem?"

"Eet made zem stop zreatening me."

They arrive at a ride light and she turns to look at him. He has his knees pulled him to his chest and the faintest smile on his lips. His shovel is in the backseat but he knows he can reach it if he has to.

"Are you going to turn me een to ze Yardale School?"

She flinches.

He waits.

"You really are ze most fucked up child I 'ave ever met."

He gives her a cheerless smile. "All because of you, _maman." _His cheeks are still flushed; his blood still rushes through his veins, and adrenaline pumps through him.

He feels alive again for the first time in forever.


	22. La Resistance

It's been a while, hasn't?

(Dodges rocks thrown by angry readers).

So, yeah, late update. I said it would be sooner, but I lied. This chapter was way too freaking hard too write. I'm not quite sure if I like it or not. I rewrote it because I decided it was boring, which is part of the reason this took so long. It might still be boring. I really hope it's not.

Thanks for the reviews for the last chapter, even though the last chapter sucked and didn't deserve it.

Thanks to Jugendfrei for beta'ing, and helping me with the French bits and the PTSD. If this chapter is any good at all, it's probably because of her.

Thanks to everyone for reading this madness of a fanfic. This author's note is too long.

Music:

Never Surrender (Skillet)

The Bird and the Worm (The Used)

Bloodstream (Stateless)

The Mole's Reprise (Matt and Trey)

* * *

_If you have not seen South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut, yet have for some reason read all the way through a fanfic about characters appearing exclusively in this movie, go watch the damn movie before reading this chapter. Many of the scenes of this chapter are written based on the assumption that you've seen the movie. Watch. The. Damn. Movie. Now. At least watch the last 1/3__rd__ of the movie, which is where Christophe shows up. Here's where you can watch it illegally online (used as reference while writing this fanfic): __http:/southparkzone__ (DOT) /2009/06/south-park-movie (DOT) html . Watch. The. Damn. Movie. Now. Thank you very much, and enjoy. _

* * *

It's two days after his suspension, and as per usual, he can't sleep.

Every creak of the house makes him flinch. What if it's one of the Yardale soldiers, and they've found him? What if-

He hugs his shovel. Underneath his bed, nothing can find him. He tells himself that a few times and hopes it's true.

His mouth is dry. He closes his eyes shut. _There's nothing out there_, he reminds himself.

He rolls out from under his bed. The darkness of the house wraps around him as he pads through the hallway and down the stairs. He grips his shovel with shaking fingers.

The sound of the water faucet turning on makes him wince. It's too loud. He downs his water as quickly as possible, sets the glass on the counter for his mother to deal with in the morning, and turns around.

Gregory's sitting at the kitchen table.

Christophe yanks his shovel off his back and points it at the other boy. Gregory just smiles. There are bandages wrapped over the right side of his face. His arm is bent at a twisted, awkward angle. Bruises dot his body. Cuts bleed freely. Gashes slice the black fabric of his Yardale uniform.

"What 'appened to you?" Christophe asks.

"They hurt me because you left," Gregory says. "They hurt all of us."

"_Mais. . .ce m'était . . . je l'ai fait. . ._ " He doesn't even realize he's babbling in French. Gregory seems to understand him anyways.

"So what if it was you?" he sneers back. "We're all the same to them, anyways, aren't we, Christophe?"

He stands up from his spot at the kitchen table. Christophe stumbles back, his shovel raised in front of him even though his hands are trembling.

"I just wanted to be free!" he screams. "I just wanted – I just – I just-"

Gregory starts to walk towards him, his lips twisted in a smile. Then he disappears.

Christophe stares at the spot where Gregory was a second ago. He reaches out and touches the empty air.

"_Maman_?" he whispers, but his parents are still in there room. Doubtless they've heard his screams. Yet he's sickened them. They won't help him.

"_Maman_?"

And she's still not there.

For a second, he pretends he can go to their room and crawl up into bed with them, and she'd stroke his sweaty hair and ask him what's wrong, and his father would tickle him until he's giggling, and he'd fall asleep wrapped in their arms.

For a second, he pretends.

Then he heads back up to his room and hides under his bed.

* * *

The next night he's huddled under his bed when he's overcome with the horrible urge to use the bathroom. He manages to stay cuddled up for an hour, but eventually, his insomnia defeats him again.

When he stumbles back into his room, Maria is sitting on his bed.

He raises his shovel and glares at her. "Are you real?"

"No," she says. She's naked from the waist down. Blood gushes out from between her legs and stains his sheets. It _looks _real.

"What's 'appening to me?" he asks. His heart beats loud and fast, slamming into his chest with every pounding pulse. He swallows hard.

"I don't know," she says, and then her expression twists in rage. "You left us, that's what. You left us and walked away."

"You were ze ones who left me," he snaps, "when you deedn't come wiz me."

"We should have stopped you." She shakes her head. "We shouldn't have let you leave. We should have stopped you."

"Zen why deedn't you?"

She smiles sadly. "Because they would have killed you." She leans forward. "They've seen how monstrous you are now, Christophe. They have nothing left to do with you. They want you dead. They want you gone."

"I already know zat."

"Of course you do." She dips her fingers into the pool of blood before her and brings it up to her face. She inspects her sticky red fingers for a second before licking them, then smirks at the expression on his face.

"Of course you already know that. I can't tell you anything you don't already know, because I'm just part of your fucked-up head."

"Fuck you." He turns off the lights and crawls under his bed. He has to bite the fabric of his t-shirt to keep from screaming.

* * *

After a week, he discovers a rhythm to the hallucinations.

Gregory is accusatory and angry and threatening. Maria is angry, too, but in a sad, twisted, 'why-did-you-leave-us?' way. Chase just looks lonely. He begs Christophe to come back, promises he won't be hurt, just says he wants to see him again.

They're everywhere. At first he hopes they only come out at night, and then they start to appear with his parents, dancing around the kitchen, stalking him out of the house. The only place he's safe is under his bed.

Their injuries grow wilder as the days pass. One time Chase shows up with his head ripped off and a gushing stump of a neck, his identity discernable by his cocoa-colored skin and clothing.

He dreams nightmares real enough for him to wake and think he's still trapped back in that place. It makes him sob, huddled up, hugging himself and clenching his teeth to keep from crying out.

He huddles from every shadow, avoids conversation like the plague. He imagines soldiers in the corners. His brain conjures up demons for him to fight, even though he knows they're not real and he has to convince himself not to go batshit insane and start swinging his shovel at flickers of light.

When he's allowed back to the school, they confiscate the shovel. He protests with the foulest language he knows. Miraculously, he's not expelled. Instead the teacher promises to hold onto the shovel and it'll be in the front of his class in case he "needs it." The teacher and the principal smile at each other when they suggest that he'll "need it." Christophe is not amused. They might call it paranoia, but he knew for a fact his mother is inches from turning him in to the Yardale School.

He tolerates them taking his shovel because he's having trouble telling the differences between the fake Gregory who whispers nightmares into his ears, and the schoolchildren around him.

The counselor appointments continue. Mr. Carter promises repeatedly that he won't tell his mother, which only serves to convince Christophe that he's revealing the entire contents of their conversations to her.

One day he's sitting in the office and staring at Gregory's dead body behind Mr. Carter. It looks real. It looks real enough for his stomach to clench. It looks real enough for Christophe to interrupt Carter's psycho-therapist drabble.

"What eef I'm . . . seeing zings?"

Carter blinks. "Are you?"

Christophe shrugs.

"What are you seeing, Christophe?" Carter says gently.

He hesitates for a few seconds, then mutters, " . . . my friends. From . . .where I was before."

"I see." Carter writes something down on the clipboard in front of him. "Are your . . . friends –"

"Zey're 'allucinations," Christophe snaps.

"Yes," Carter agrees. "Yes, they are. Are your hallucinations threatening you?"

He shakes his head. "Zey . . . zey ask me to come back."

Carter raises his eyebrows.

"Because . . . because I left zem be'ind . . . when I escaped zat place."

Gregory's corpse next to Carter's desk starts to shift. Christophe gulps.

"I want to make zem go away. I . . . I . . . I'm scared."

He curls his knees up to his chest.

Carter nods. "This is a normal part of PTSD, Christophe."

"Eet ees?"

"Yes. Many other sufferers also experience these symptoms."

"I'm not going crazy?"

"Of course not," Carter says.

Oh, god, _what if he's lying_? Christophe swallows hard and grips the shovel in his lap.

"I'm going to give you some advice, and I don't want you to feel afraid, I just want you to follow it, all right?"

Christophe shrugs.

"Do any of your hallucinations appear more than others?"

He nods. Maria shows up almost every day.

"I want you to befriend the one that shows up the most often. Give it-"

"Her."

"Alright. Give her a name, even. Not the one she already has. Then she'll protect you from the others."

Christophe stares at him incredulously.

"Please, Christophe," Carter says. "Try it. It may help."

The Gregory Corpse on the ground starts to get on its knees.

"Okay. I'll try eet."

* * *

He names the Maria-Hallucination Martinez, because that's her last name. In his mind Martinez immediately becomes separate from Maria, which is a relief, because he had been starting to think of Maria as a soulless monster who taunted him and shouted at him.

Martinez laughs and snorts at him and tells him how angry she is at him for abandoning them, but he tells her she's his friend over and over again. Finally, she agrees. Her body starts to heal up. She's still covered with wounds, of course, but her neck stitches back together and she doesn't have to drag her legs after her any more. The imaginary blood in his room cleans up.

He grows used to the dreaming, the nightmares, and the constant paranoia. The hallucinations grow more frequent, and when a particularly dangerous fake-demon leaps out at him, Martinez is usually right behind him, telling him it'll be okay in her snarky voice. It makes him feel safe. Safety is a dangerous feeling, so he eliminates the comforting sensations and continues to sleep under his bed.

He doesn't interact much with the inhabitants of South Park. He barely speaks to the other children at his private school. Mark is the only one who gets any real conversation out of him, and that's usually just Christophe asking him for a cigarette.

He starts to talk to the counselor. He doesn't tell him anything real. But he does admit sometimes when he's afraid. He tells him about his nightmares. He says he's done horrible things and Carter tells him it's okay, and Christophe can't believe him.

He grows used to his life.

And then it all goes to hell in the form of a letter on his windowsill one night.

* * *

He inspects the letter for ten minutes before pulling it out. Nothing explodes. He hides under his bed and opens it up.

The letter is typed, in French. He reads it aloud to himself, the syllables sliding over his tongue.

_Meet me at Stark's Pond at four-thirty tomorrow._

_Sincerely,_

_A friend._

He can't think of any friends. Mark doesn't technically count. And who the hell would leave him the letter in French?

He makes the executive decision not to go to Stark's Pond tomorrow as the letter requests. Then he decides it could be important. But if it's important –

He agonizes over the decision for six hours curled up under his bed. He finally settles on _oui _before drifting off into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The snowflakes swirl around him. He shivers in his threadbare jacket. It's the one he took from Jordan several months ago when he stayed overnight in his house. He doesn't like wearing the clothes his parents buy for him.

The children skate and dance on the ice, laughing to themselves. White trails fade behind them as the blades of their skates cut through the frozen surface of Stark's pond.

Three-fifty. He arrived earlier so he could watch out for an ambush. So far, nothing. His teeth clench together.

Then he notices them.

They're skating together, the girl and the boy. The girl has long black hair and a purple beret. He thinks he remembers her name. Wendy.

The boy . . .

Martinez skates over to him, blood dribbling down her neck from a life-threatening slice. "Hey," she says. "What'cha thinking? Not that I don't already know."

"Go away."

"You're the one who left us," she reminds him.

"Go away." He clenches his fist. "You aren't real. Gregory isn't real." He jerks his head at the blond boy who's skating with Wendy.

"Okay." She blows him a kiss and disappears. He rubs his temples. The shovel on his back weighs him down.

The Gregory ghost . . . hallucination . . . thing . . . starts to make his way over to Christophe. He says goodbye to the girl with the purple beret, who waits patiently with a smile. Christophe's skin prickles. No one else can see the crazy shit that goes on his head.

Gregory looks clean. His skin bears none of the wounds Christophe's hallucinations always wear.

He pulls a fresh cigarette from the pack and lights it with steady fingers.

Gregory leaves the girl a few dozen feet away; Christophe hears him murmur something like, "just have to talk to a friend of mine, won't be a minute." Then the British bastard skates up to him.

"Those things are terrible for you," Gregory points out.

"At zis point," Christophe says, "I'm more likely to die from a bullet to ze 'ead." He drags on his cigarette and waits.

Gone is the all-black uniform of Yardale. This Gregory wears an orange, collared shirt. His hair has been combed and styled into a blond helmet of curls. His steel-blue eyes portray no emotion.

"Are you real?" he asks.

Gregory raises an eyebrow. "Yes."

"All right, zen." He's silent for a second.

"What are you doing 'ere?" Because Christophe knows Gregory is not free. If he were free, he would have Maria and Chase trailing after him.

"Yardale sent me."

"Ah." Christophe blows out smoke. "So zey know where I am?"

"Yes." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Your mother called us up a few weeks ago. She said you'd –"

"Ah." He doesn't need further elaboration. So his mother had turned him in, and she hadn't even said anything, and he didn't even remember what he'd done to piss her off. He wonders how she must have felt when the Yardale School didn't come storming him and carry him off like they all expected.

"So why am I still free? Why am I still _alive_?"

Gregory looks at him, just looks at him, and Christophe sucks on his cigarette again to hide the chills traveling up his spine.

"They think you're a monster, that you're warped and twisted beyond control," he says finally, "but they're not sure."

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"Why are you 'ere, Gregory fucking Zorne? Zey never let us out."

"I'm special." The telltale smirk appears on his lips. "I don't eat the hearts of dead children."

"Zat was your idea, British fag, and eet worked. I am free."

"Not for long."

They stare at each other, and Christophe knows this isn't the same Gregory as before; this Gregory is mangled past repair and desperately lonely.

"So you're wiz zem, now."

"I have always been with them, mole. I just didn't realize it."

"Don't call me zat," he snaps. Somehow anything from Gregory (even just a nickname) feels filthy and tainted.

"Why not? It's true. You fled blindly and burrowed your way out."

"Fuck you." He stubs his cigarette out with the sole of his boots in the snow. Gregory stands on the edge of the ice.

"Listen, Christophe." And there's a hint of desperation in his eyes, like he's drowning. "They're going to kill you, got it? They're going to fucking kill you if you prove yourself a monster."

Christophe wants to demand why the hell he should care, but Gregory grabs his wrists and pulls him close so they're nose to nose.

"And I really don't want you to die," he mutters.

He smells like Gregory. Familiar. Safe.

_Traitor. _

He wrenches his arms away and rubs at his sore wrists (he'll have bruises tomorrow, the blond British fag gripped him so hard). He doesn't stomp away.

"What do I 'ave to do?"

If Gregory feels relief, he doesn't let it show. He drops his hands to his sides. "I'm going to make sure you'll get an opportunity to prove yourself as one of heaven's allied."

"I'm not-"

"I know you're not, mole, but it really doesn't matter," he snarls. "Listen. There's some trouble brewing up and I think it's going to be big. You'll know what to do when you need to do it. I'll try to give you a sign if you can. This is my job, to steer you to the right path. That's why they chose me."

"Also because you're as much as a cold-'earted bastard as ze ass'oles who run ze school."

His eyes narrow. "When the time comes to act, do the right thing. Help people. It'll show Yardale you're not a hellspawn monster and they'll take you back without killing you and maybe only torture you for a few months."

"I am never going back."

"You have to." He reaches out and twines his fingers with Christophe's. "It's where you belong."

Christophe yanks his hand away. Gregory turns and skates back over to the black-haired girl, who's twirling in a circle all this while. She smiles and waves Gregory over. Christophe's stomach clenches.

She doesn't get it. No one will ever fucking get it.

They're broken, the four of them, broken and smashed to pieces. Like someone took a mallet to their humanity and bashed it in. Some part of him that's supposed to make him care about every one else . . . that part is damaged.

Gregory is the same as him. No, worse, because he doesn't even acknowledge his brokenness anymore. He just accepts it like it's normal, like it's just the way things are and the way things should be.

Christophe lights another cigarette. This time, his fingers are shaking. He sucks hard, grateful for the nicotine.

* * *

He smiles at his mother when he walks back home. She drops the glass she's holding. He never smiles at her, never smiles, period.

"What's happening?" she asks in French as she sweeps up the broken glass.

He slouches against the doorway to the kitchen. "You turned me in."

She freezes, the broom still clenched in his hands.

"Christophe, I-"

"Don't explain yourself. I just wish I could have seen the expression on your face when you realized they weren't coming to drag me out of here and off your hands forever."

He waits for her to explain herself. She doesn't even try.

"Are you going to keep paying my school tuition?"

"Yes," she says.

"_Merde_." He sticks a cigarette in his mouth and saunters up to his bedroom.

* * *

Christophe knocks on Mark's first-floor bedroom window at six in the morning a week later. It takes a minute, but Mark finally slides his window up and pokes his head out, his hair a disheveled mass of black around his head.

"What the fuck?" he mutters. "It's Saturday. How do you know where I live?"

"Put some clozes on. I need your 'elp."

"How do you know where I live?"

Christophe shrugs. All right, he's followed him home once, but that was just for security measures.

"Hiya, Mark!" Kasey chirps from behind Christophe.

Mark's gaze focuses on him. "What the fuck is he doing here?"

"Same zing you're doing. Put your clozes on."

Mark climbs out the window five minutes later, still rubbing his eyes. Christophe leads the two of them down street. His shovel rests over his shoulders. He has it out of its strap in preparation for violence. Since it's late in the year, the sky still clings to night. Snowflakes pepper the blackness of early morning. Christophe pulls his jacket tighter around him.

"Where we going?" Mark mumbles.

"I need to do some breaking and entering. I need you two to distract ze owner of ze 'ouse and whoever else ees wiz 'im."

"Oh," Mark says.

"Isn't breaking and entering kind of illegal?" Kasey asks.

"_Oui_."

"Okay."

"Why don't you just go at night when they're asleep?" Mark asks.

"Because zen zey would be in zeir bedrooms."

"But they'd be asleep."

He smiles without humor. "Eef I know Gregory well at all, I zink even opening 'is window would wake 'im up."

"Gregory?" Mark yawns. "That British transfer student? I hear he's going to South Park Elementary."

"_Oui, oui_, whatever, eet does not matter. Look. We are 'ere." Christophe got the address from the girl named Wendy. They stop in front of a huge, three-story house with a metal gate. It's whitewashed, with pillars of stone and tiled walkways. The driveway contains an expensive-looking car.

Mark whistles. "Damn, what are you stealing?"

"Nozing." He narrows his eyes.

"I want you to ring ze doorbell and distract whoever comes to ze door. I suspect Gregory ees living wiz 'is teacher, Ms. Grayson-"

"He's living with a teacher? Aw, sick, dude-"

"Eet's not like zat," Christophe snarls, although in retrospect it sort of is like that. "She ees 'is caregiver. Look, 'e ees living wiz 'is guardian, Ms. Grayson. She will most likely answer ze door. To get Gregory to come down as well, you need to ask eef you can play wiz 'im or somezing. 'E will probably say no, but just beg and plead for a leetle bit, and when 'e finally kicks you out I will probably be done."

"What's in it for us?" Mark asks.

Christophe rubs his temples. "I'll buy my own cigarettes for a week wizzout bumming zem off you."

"All right."

"I don't smoke," Kasey points out.

"I'll be your friend."

"Okay!" Kasey says cheerfully. He doesn't have any friends.

"Good. Go. Try to 'ave at least ten minutes for me."

The three of them duck through the unlocked gate (it's the kind just for show) and scurry up the driveway. Christophe nods to the two of them and ducks around the side of the house.

He knows which bedroom is Gregory's because he's been watching the house for the past week. Unfortunately, whenever Gregory leaves the house, he locks his windows down firmly. Christophe notes that Gregory always opens the window when he first enters his bedroom.

Christophe does the same. He feels like he's suffocating when he's trapped in his bedroom with no escape route.

He climbs a tree and hides in the branches. Peering through the leaves, he makes out Gregory through his bedroom window. The Brit is sitting on his bed, a laptop in front of him. He chews his lips in an all-too familiar way, his eyes glued to the screen. Christophe grits his teeth.

A minute passes. Then another minute. Then the Grayson lady's familiar voice echoes up through Gregory's room and out the window.

"Some children are here to see you!"

Gregory sighs and closes his laptop.

Christophe hangs his shovel up in the tree, since he's learned the hard way its extra weight makes the acrobatics difficult. He lunges forward. His body whacks into the wall, and he barely manages to grab a hold of the sill before gravity kicks in.

He pushes up the sill up to make his way inside.

The first thing he does is pounce on the laptop. A password pops up when he opens it. He growls curses under his breath and slams the laptop closed.

He doesn't know what he's looking for.

Maybe a hint of what Gregory's going to tell him to do?

Or some sign that Maria and Chase are doing okay.

Christophe's breath catches in his throat. He digs around in the bedside table, careful to replace everything he moves. There's nothing except pens, pencils, and notebook paper. A backpack is propped up against the wall. There's nothing inside it save for schoolbooks.

He pulls open the desk drawers. In the top one is a VCR. A strip of white masking tap runs along its spine, proclaiming the title as, "Terrance and Phillip Movie."

What the hell? He narrows his eyebrows. He half-knows who Terrance and Phillip are. They're a pair of comedians from Canada, and although he's never seen their TV show, he's heard it's pretty crude. Didn't their movie come out in theaters a week or so ago? Why does Gregory have a (probably pirated) copy?

There are two files. One of them has detailed pictures of some sort of explosion. He manages to read the English below: "Canadian bombing of the Baldwins." He vaguely remembers seeing something about that on TV. yesterday. How did Gregory get these pictures?

There's also a file marked, "Information on M.A.C." A quick glance-through reveals that Gregory appears to have been spying on them, and M.A.C. stands for "Mothers Against Canada." He hasn't heard of that one. He's tempted to steal the file, but then Gregory will know that he was there.

In the next drawer down, there are four pictures. Christophe's breath catches in his throat.

The first is a group pictures they all took almost a year ago, as part of a record or something. There's the ten of them. Lilac on the end with her head down, Maria looking away, gritting her teeth, Jorge smirking at the camera with his other boys crowded around him . . .

He puts that picture down and picks up the second one. It's one of just the four of them. He remembers taking this picture. They were in Maria's room at the time, and Ms. Grayson had declared they "all looked so cute together." The four of them look incredibly unhappy in the picture, but they're all lying on top of each other because they always cuddled together when given the chance.

The third picture is one of Maria and Chase, and it's recent, seeing as Maria's two front teeth have grown in almost all the way. She's smiling tentatively and waving, with Chase half-ducked behind her. They look okay. They look almost happy.

_ Maybe staying behind was good for them._

He shuts the thought out of his mind. Staying behind was the most fucked-up decision they could have made. They were the ones who were too afraid to escape. He's the one who was brave, not the other way around.

His fingers clench the photo, crumpling it slightly. He hurriedly smoothes it out and places it back in the drawer.

The last photo is of a pissed-off, bruised-up, exhausted-looking Christophe, who's smoking a cigarette and half-turned away from the camera.

He places the photo back in the drawer and shuts it. His heart beats way too fast. He grips the desk to steady himself.

Gregory is sitting on the bed when he turns around.

He almost freaks, but then he sees the cuts on Gregory's face, the open wounds on his bare arms. It's a hallucination. At least, he hopes it is.

"Are you real?" he whispers. His hallucinations usually tell the truth.

The Gregory on the bed doesn't say anything, so Christophe assumes yes. He glances around the room. A pile of body parts crowds the space around Gregory's backpack. They ooze mold and gunk, black, brown and red stains coating the floor around them. Definitely hallucinating.

He hears footsteps outside the door. They could be his imagination, too, but he doesn't want to risk it. He wriggles out the window, perches on the sill, and leaps for the tree.

He lands in a crouch in the branch, slings his shovel back over his shoulder, and jumps to the ground. His knees ache when the shock of the impact travels up his legs. He hides in bush, even though the leaves scratch at him and poke at his skin.

Gregory ducks his head out the window, looking back and forth. Christophe peers at him through the leaves.

_ Fuck, he forgot to shut the window to the right height! _

"I know you're out there," Gregory says clearly, and then shuts the window.

* * *

Mark and Kasey are waiting for him when he finally makes his way out to the street again. He's covered in dirt and grime from rolling around in the garden.

"Have any luck?" Mark asks.

"What'd'ja steal?" Kasey demands.

"Deedn't steal anyzing," Christophe mutters. "And zat ees none of your business."

"We just aided you in breaking and entering. Totally our business." Mark lights a cigarette and sticks it in his mouth. Christophe tries to steal one from him, but Mark glares at him, a silent reminder that Christophe had promised to purchase his own damn cigarettes.

"Do you know who ze 'Mozzers against Canada' are?"

"Huh?" Mark blinks. "I think they're, like, this group of parents that are pissed off about the Terrance and Phillip thing. They had them, like, arrested or something. And they're banning Canada. Or something."

"Banning Canada?" He stares at Mark. "'Ow do you ban an entire country-"

A U.S. army truck pulls up. The back of the truck is made of chain-link fence, and dozens of people are crammed inside. Christophe holds his shovel out in front of him, defensively, glaring at the soldiers who jump out of the truck.

"Kasey Manning?" one of the soldiers asks.

"That's me!" Kasey chirps.

Christophe rolls his eyes. What a moron.

"You're coming with us." With that, the soldier hauls him towards the back of the truck, opens the door, and, ignoring the pleas of the people already jammed into the truck, hurls the eight-year-old boy inside. Christophe and Mark watch in awe as the truck drives away.

"That was weird," Mark says. He sucks on his cigarette.

"Very," Christophe agrees.

* * *

He goes down to the library, finds a computer, and attempts to research. "Mothers Against Canada" is an organization only formed a few days ago. Somehow they have thousands of members all over the country. His computer buzzes as it attempts to load the image-heavy pages. He scrolls over website upon website about the Canadian-American war. There are thousands of rants about the filthy Canadians and how they're influencing today's youth. He supposes that's why Gregory had the VCR of Terrance and Phillip's movie.

He watches the advertisement for the U.S. military. His stomach clenches. Americans are fucked up. They're going to execute Terrance and Phillip just because of some filthy language. Hell, Christophe swears like crazy and he's never even seen the movie.

They're putting all the Canadians in poorly disguised concentration camps. Americans are kind of sick, too. He chews on a cigarette until the librarian kicks him out. Then he waits outside the library, thinking while he smokes.

Terrance and Phillip did nothing wrong and they're going to be executed in two days' time in something akin to a sporting event, the U.S.O show. Then the U.S. is going to fucking war with Canada over something so batshit stupid.

Is that why Gregory has those files and those videos? Is he going to do something about it? Is he going to stop it?

What can one eight-year-old do?

Christophe smirks to himself around his cigarette as he starts to saunter down the street towards his house. Eight-year-olds can do quite a lot, actually.

He figures out that Kasey is probably Canadian, which is why the soldiers dragged him off. He wonders if being French is close enough for them to arrest him. He decides to keep as low of a profile as possible. Never mind that he thinks the whole thing is stupid; if he does something to stop it, the U.S. military could come after him.

This plan, of course, is promptly ruined when Mark comes knocking on his door later that day.

* * *

"What?" he asks. Mark has never been over to his house before

"Have you heard, mole?" Mark sucks on his cigarette and blows out smoke.

"Obviously not," he snaps. "And why are you calling me zat?"

"Thought it was your nickname."

"No, eet's not."

"That Gregory kid calls you that."

"You've been 'anging out wiz Gregory?"

"You broke into his house, dude."

"You've been 'anging out wiz 'im?"

Mark sighs. "He stopped at my house today and asked me if I knew you."

"What deed you say?"

"Said, yeah, you go to my school. I think he figured out you broke into his house."

"Fuck. Deed you tell 'im anyzing important?"

"Like, what, your social security number? Nah, I said I didn't know where you'd been earlier today." He grins. Then his expression turns serious. "We have to talk. There's something going on."

"Well? What ze 'ell ees eet?"

Mark is used to Christophe's pleasant demeanor by now. "There's an underground movement. Just for kids, man. La Resistance. Fighting back against the assholes who are going to kill Terrance and Phillip. Gregory told me about it."

"Zought you deedn't like Terrance and Phillip." Christophe is honestly not surprised Gregory is involved.

"Don't. Still doesn't mean they deserve to die, doesn't mean we should go to war. Plus, they kidnapped that little nerd, Kasey." Mark raises his eyebrows. "You in?"

"Zey are just kids, trying to fight against all zese soldiers, and zey zink zey won't get killed?" He shakes his head. "Don't tell anyone you came over 'ere. I don't want to be linked to you when you die."

"Hey." Mark grabs the door before he can slam it shut. "You could be really helpful, you know. All I know about you is that you're fucking crazy, and apparently that's what they need."

Christophe shrugs. "Don't say my name. Please. Don't tell anyone you talked to me about zis and I won't 'ave to 'urt you."

Mark smiles without humor. "You're kind of a dick, you know that, Christophe?" He turns and stomps off.

* * *

_His shovel swings down and bashes into the blond British fag's head. The sickening, satisfying crunch of bone echoes out through the clearing. Gregory's eyes roll back, revealing only the whites. He topples to the ground, and Christophe stands over him, smirking-_

Christophe wakes up, gasping for breath. Sweat pours down his face. He hunches over and buries his face in his arms.

He wants to just give up. He wants to not care anymore. He doesn't care about that British bitch, not really. He just . . . can't forget about him. He can't.

He just wants to not care about anyone anymore.

* * *

This time Christophe doesn't even bother with secrecy and distractions. Gregory knows he's breaking in. He perches on the end of the branch and taps on the glass of Gregory's bedroom window.

Gregory opens the window.

"It's three in the morning," he points out.

"Shut ze fuck up."

An amused smirk crosses his lips. He stands back. Christophe swings himself inside and lands in a crouch on Gregory's bedroom floor.

"Interesting," Gregory says.

"Shut up," Christophe snarls. He grabs Gregory by his collar and kisses him. Then he shoves him away and flops down in the corner of the room.

"Even more interesting," Gregory says dryly.

Christophe slings his shovel off his back so it's on the floor next to him, then lights a cigarette. He smokes it with trembling fingers and watches Gregory, who's standing back against the opposite wall with his arms crossed.

"Do you 'ave any idea what you do to my 'ead, Gregory of Yardale?" he whispers hoarsely.

"Probably the same things you do to me," he says in the same dry tone. He moves over to crouch down next to Christophe.

They both expect Christophe to push him away. When he doesn't, the surprise is evident on both of their faces.

Gregory plucks the cigarette from Christophe's mouth, stubs it out on the ground, and replaces it with his lips.

They're like that for a long time, reveling in the physical affection, taking solace in the other's existence. When Gregory pulls away, both of them are bright red, and Christophe's heart beats way too fast.

"Come back to Yardale without a fight," Gregory says, pleading with his eyes. He takes Christophe's right hand, then his left. Their fingers intertwine. This time, Christophe doesn't shove him away. "They won't have to hurt you as much if you do."

Christophe shakes his head. "_Non_. I am never going back."

"It's my job, mole."

"Don't call me zat."

Gregory is quiet.

"They're going to kill you," he says after a few seconds, "if you can't prove your loyalty to God. Yes, I know you're not loyal to God. But they're going to kill you. And you can't die. _You can't_."

"I'll do what you ask. I'll do the 'mission' you told me about. But I will not go back without a struggle."

Gregory sighs and leans back against the wall next to Christophe. He has one arm around his shoulder, pulling him close. Christophe leans into him, pretending for a second that things are normal, whatever their warped definition of normal is.

"What are you going to 'ave me do, anyway? Somezing wiz ze whole Terrance and Phillip zing?"

Gregory nods. "I'll be sending some people over tomorrow to explain your mission to you. They don't know anything about-" He waves his hands to indicate nothing. "They think they're doing it for this group called 'La Resistance.'"

"La Resistance?"

"Yes." He smiles. "_Viva La Resistance_."

"You're so full of _sheet_," Christophe says.

"Hmm?"

"Eet's not like you 'ave ever fought back against anyzing. You've always just gone wiz whatever ze Yardale School tells you to do."

"That's just because I-"

"Because you deedn't 'ave a plan."

Gregory's grip around him tenses, as if he's afraid Christophe's going to break free any second.

"That's not true," he says quietly.

"Yes, eet ees."

There's no rebuttal to a statement like that, at least, not one that won't dissolve into bickering.

"We miss you," Gregory says.

That was a low blow. "_Va te faire foutre_."

Gregory winces. Apparently he knows enough French to understand what that means. "You shouldn't have left us."

"You're ze one who gave me zat damn plan een ze first place."

"I didn't think-"

"You knew I would do eet. Don't pretend you deedn't. You knew I would succeed. You gave me zat plan because you wanted to entertain ze possibility of escape. Eet was like a fantasy for you. A fantasy I made real. And once eet was real, eet scared you. You couldn't follow zrough."

"Do you have any idea what they did to us after you left?" he hisses. "As punishment, and to make sure we didn't get any ideas, they made us go into the Fridge and have some fun with Low Hellspawn the same way you did."

Chills crawl up Christophe's spine.

"Chase couldn't kill his. Fortunately, they let me go on intercom and convince him to kill her. He got out. Happy ending."

"Zose Yardale bastards," Christophe spits out.

"They're going to have to die anyway," Gregory says without a hint of remorse in his voice. "They're on the wrong side of the war, heaven's side has to win-"

"Why does eet always 'ave to be about _sides_ wiz you?" Christophe hisses. "Eesn't zat ze whole point of La Resistance? Zat you refuse to pick a side?"

"It doesn't work like that."

"Yes, eet does. And you're afraid."

There's another lull of silence.

"Alright, I am," Gregory says.

More silence. Christophe has his head in his arms.

"Doesn't change the fact that you have to come back to Yardale."

Christophe shakes his head without looking up. "_Non_. Never."

"Then we're enemies now?"

Christophe looks up at him.

He wants to cry and dissolve and fall apart. He wants to punch Gregory and demand he try to escape. He wants the other boy to help him kill Ms. Grayson and then go back to the school to rescue Chase and Maria again, except this time it'd actually work. He wants them both to be free.

They can't. He knows it, deep down. They can't be free. There's no way out of this one. They can't be free. He can't convince Gregory.

So he lets the betrayed feeling inside of him build, until it fills him and consumes him. The part of him that cares about Gregory and Maria and Chase melts away, and it's replaced with a cold, hard mask.

He doesn't have a name for this feeling yet. But it's not him, not the same, not anymore, because it gives him the strength to pretend he could care less.

A smirk crosses Not-Christophe's lips. "_Oui._ Enemies." He plants a kiss on Gregory's cheek, disentangles himself from his grip, and disappears out the window.

* * *

It's about four-thirty in the morning when Not-Christophe steps through the front door. His mother and father are drowsing on the couch. They look up when he enters.

"Where have you been?" his mother hisses in French.

He kicks off his boots. "You have never cared before." Then he smirks. "You were hoping Yardale School came and stole me away, weren't you?"

Their lack of response confirms it. He snorts and starts up the stairs.

"Don't you dare go, Christophe!" his mother calls.

"Stop pretending, _maman_." He turns, snarling. "Stop pretending you care at all. You two just have no idea what to do with me."

"If you walk up those stairs right now, you're leaving!" she screams. "You're leaving this house, _comprenes-tu_? We don't want a child here who won't listen to his parents!"

His heart beats a little to fast, but he manages to hold onto the cold, Not-Christophe persona. He runs up the stairs to his bedroom and strips. He changes into the clothes Jordan gave him months ago. Baggy brown pants, boots that laced up to mid-knee, and a green t-shirt. He digs under his bed to find his gloves. He doesn't want to wear anything his 'parents' have bought for him.

He slings a coil of rope over his shoulder. He'll probably need it, and it's best to be prepared. The pocketknife he stole a month ago goes into his pocket. He slings his shovel back over his shoulder then starts down the stairs again.

His parents are waiting by the door. "You're really going?" his mother whispers.

Not-Christophe shrugs. "Please get out of the way."

"After everything you've put us through, you're finally going?"

She's happy. She's happy he's leaving them.

Now the two of them can finally live in peace. Everyone wins.

His Not-Christophe persona cracks, leaving a lonely, scared and scarred eight-year-old boy.

He cries.

Standing right there, he starts to sob. Right in front of his parents, the people who have hurt him more than Yardale, more than Jorge's gang, more than Gregory, more than anyone else in the world has hurt him.

He cries openly for the first time in a long time.

"Oh, Christophe," his father whispers. His strong arms go around Christophe. He clings to him. He can't control himself.

"_T'inquietes pas_," his mother tells him. "_Shh, shh, it's okay." _

"No, it's not okay!" he screams. "You sold me! You fucking sold Owen and me, and then he died and you don't even care. And you don't know what they made me do, and the horrible things they did to me, you don't know, it's not okay, it's not okay, it's never-"

He can't speak anymore. He buries himself into the lying embraces of his parents.

"It's be okay, Christophe. After everything that's happened, God surely smiles down-"

"God is a cocksucking asshole," he says.

"Christophe!" His mother looks him in the eye, her expression harsh. "This is the kind of thing – look." She takes a deep breath. "We realize what we did was wrong. We've regretted it, I swear. We mourn Owen every day. We're so very, very sorry."

"Don't believe you," he mutters, but she continues.

"We want to start over. We do. We moved with you to America to start over. But you don't want to start over, Christophe. You keep holding on to your past. You act like you're still trapped . . . wherever you were before, the Yardale School, correct? And we want you to be a normal boy again."

He nods, hiccupping.

"How about this," his father says. "We'll ground you, and if you can behave and stay grounded for three days, then you can stay, all right? And we'll treat you just like a normal child and we'll forget this ever happened."

_It's no use,_ he wants to scream at them. _It's no use, because the Yardale School knows where I am, and they're going to make me go back, they're going to kill me if I don't do what they want. It's no use, because I can't forget. _

He wants to pretend so badly.

"Okay," he says.

"Good." His mother hugs him.

"God is still a fucking faggot."

She flicks him on the head. "Don't use that kind of language. Bad Christophe. Or would you prefer I call you the Mole?"

He stares at her.

"That's what that boy from the other day called you. It's your nickname among your friends, isn't it?"

He doesn't have any friends and it's certainly not his nickname, but he shrugs and says, "sure."

"Well then. Good night, mole. Go to bed, it's very late."

He lets them hug him one more time before stumbling back up the stairs.

* * *

There's no point in going to sleep, as it's a little bit after five right now and he'll wake up at five thirty just like usual. So he stares up at the ceiling and listens through the thin floors of the house as his parents argue downstairs.

"I just don't know what to do," his mother moans. "What if he doesn't listen to us?"

"Then we'll throw him out," his father, always the quiet-spoken one, assures her.

"I can't throw him out, not after we saw him break down crying! He's just a little boy inside, for all the shields he puts up! He's just a little boy who's been through way too much."

"If we have to, we will," his father says.

Her sigh echoes through the house.

"And what if he does do what we say, and stays perfectly quiet and grounded, pretending to be a normal child for three days? What then? Then we'll have a monster living under our roof for years and years."

"I'm sure the people we sold him to will take him away soon," his father says. "Then we won't have to deal with him anymore."

"What if _they _don't want him any more? I honestly don't even know why they wanted the two of them in the first place."

"If they don't want him, they'll kill him," his father says. "Then no one will have to worry about what he'll do next."

He hears his mother's hiccupping sobs.

"Oh, god, I wish we'd never had children! I wish the clothes-hanger trick had worked in the first place! I wish they'd never been born!"

"Shh, shh, it will be okay," his father murmurs, comforting her much the same way the two of them comforted him twenty minutes ago. "It'll all be all right, don't you see."

Christophe is still hiding under his bed. He stares up at the bottom of his mattress through the wooden slats of his bed frame.

His shovel lies on his right side, his coil of rope on his left.

_The mole_.

He likes it, likes the detached tone of the nickname.

_The mole. _

A mole wouldn't care about anyone else. A mole wouldn't feel all empty and lonely inside. A mole would just dig and survive.

_The mole. _

The mole crawls out from under his bed to smoke a cigarette.

* * *

The next day he's lying under his bed, being grounded, waiting for something to happen. He gets his wish and his mother calls him, telling him some friends of his are there.

What if it's Gregory?

But, no, when he jumps down the stairs and meets his mother at the front door, he sees it's just some random kids. He composes his expression before he edges out of the house. He's seen them around South Park, before, although he's never spoken to them directly.

"Hi, uh," the one with the blue hat says. "We're gonna go rescue Terrance and Phillip from the USO show and we were wondering if-"

His paranoia kicks in. _Idiots_! He grabs Blue Hat by the collar and shoves him up against the side of the house. Haven't they seen the soldiers? _The guns?_ He already has enough bullshit to deal with! How do they know he's been watching the US's blundering relationship with Canada with more than a little bit of scorn? How do they know he has the ability to help them? Did Mark squeal on him? Now he has to shut Mark up.

Should he kill them to silence them, or just knock them over the head a few times?

"Who are you? Who sent you?" he hisses to Blue Hat.

"That Gregory kid!" Green Ushanka exclaims. "He says you could sneak us in!"

Oh. Fuck. That explains everything.

This is his "mission". This is how he's supposed to redeem himself to the angels. Gregory wants him to put himself at risk to help out these fucking morons.

"Are you telling me zat you intend to sneak into the USO show, filled with zousands of soldiers, and break out Terrance and Phillip?"

"I thought it was a pretty stupid idea, too," says the fat kid.

Oh, god, he's so fucked. He has to get out of here. He has to get out of here now. He can't help them, then he'll have the US government after him –

Which would be worse, the Yardale School or US government trying to kill him?

"We're La Resistance!" Blue Hat raises his arms in the air to emphasize. "We wanna save Terrance and Phillip and stop the war and stuff!"

What idiots. What fucking idiots. They'll get killed, immediately. They're just kids up against adults who are not afraid to shoot them.

"I can't 'elp you. I'm grounded een my room for ze next zree days." He takes a drag on his cigarette. It's true enough. What are the odds Gregory will be happy with this excuse?

"So are we. Our parents think we're home right now," says Green Ushanka.

"Why are you grounded?" Blue Hat asks.

"Why?" He eyes him. "Because God 'ates me, zat's why. 'E 'as made my life miserable. So I call 'im a cocksucking asshole, and I get grounded."

If only they knew, these kids screwing around and risking their lives. If only they knew how stupid this "rescuing people" shit is and how it never helps anything.

"So will you help us?" Green Ushanka asks him.

God, what morons . . . He sucks on his cigarette. They're all staring at him with huge eyes, like he knows the key, the answer.

They'll get killed if they try to sneak into this USO show. Immediately.

They're such idiots.

He doesn't want to do what Gregory tells him to do just because he's afraid of the Yardale School.

He's not afraid.

This whole thing is so stupid.

"Very well," he mutters. "Meet me in ze backyard in five minutes." He realizes what a stupid-ass thing he's agreed to. A wry smirk crosses his lips.

And, quoting Gregory, he hisses to them, "Viva La Resistance." They watch him with wide eyes.

Because he's just realized something.

He's really, really sick of this.

He just wants it to end. One way or another.

He'll go down fighting, one way or another. He won't just hang around South Park waiting to be caught, waiting for his parents to stop lying and kick him out, waiting for someone to just finally kill him already.

He's finished.

He's through.

So he leans in to the South Park kids and says conspiratorially, "We'll show God we're not going to fucking take eet anymore-"

"Christophe? Christophe, get een 'ere," his mother calls.

"Coming, mozerre!" He stubs outs his cigarette, meets each of the South Park kids' gazes, and slams the door behind him as he heads back into the house.

* * *

Somewhere between the front door and the foot of the stairs, he shifts into the Mole.

So when his mother says, "are you going to stay in your room, Christophe?" it's very easy for him to smirk and say, "of course, _maman_."

He sneaks out his window and never sees her again.

* * *

Christophe leans against a tree, going over the blueprints the South Park kids gave him. He's learned by now that their names are Stan (Blue Hat), Kyle (Green Ushanka) and Eric Cartman (the fat one). He really could care less, but he finds it amusing how they seem to think he can answer all their problems. What did Gregory say about him, anyway?

Apparently, they have to get Terrance and Phillip out by ten o clock tonight so "La Resistance" (a group of rag-tag kids, headed by Gregory, of course) can ship them off safely back to Canada. That's about three hours from now.

There's a note written at the bottom of the blueprints, in Gregory's handwriting. (He's the one who got the blueprints to the three South Park kids). He manages to decipher the curly scrawl, which is written in French. He doesn't recall ever teaching Gregory French.

_Their main defenses are a barbed wire barrier, the thousands of soldiers who are part of the US army- _

Didn't seem too difficult.

_-and they have guard dogs. _

Fuck. He hates guard dogs. He's had some unfortunate experiences with them from his time with the Yardale School.

_From the spying I've been able to do, there appears to be an alarm that will trigger if you break Terrance and Phillip free of their electric chairs. I've marked its spot on the map. The guard dogs will be let loose if the alarm goes off. _

Gregory used a heart to mark the spot. Christophe narrows his eyes and keeps reading.

_ It should be an easy enough mission compared to some of the things we've done in the past. Yardale School will collect you after you're finished._

Like hell they will.

_Good luck, and have fun, Mole!_

Then Gregory signed his name, and drew a little smiley face after it.

Christophe scoffs and crumples the note into a little ball. All right, he has to do this or the Yardale School will probably nuke him. That doesn't mean he's going to let them kidnap him without a fight.

"Mole? Mole, what should we do?" Green Ushanka- Kyle – asks. They've been huddled together a few feet away, watching him read over the blueprints and Gregory's note.

"Give me a second," he says.

He's not the planner. He's the action guy, the one who does the crazy shit no one else will do. Why didn't Gregory give him explicit instructions? He doesn't know . . . he doesn't know how to . . .

Break in. Turn off the alarm. Get Terrance and Phillip out. Free before Yardale School catches up with you.

He sucks on his cigarette. "All right. We will need some equipment first."

_I'm scared I'm scared I'm so scared I don't want to do this I don't want to die I don't –_

He shuts down the screaming eight-year-old in his mind and replaces it with the cold, calm, Mole persona. It's easier like this.

Do what he has to do and get out.

Easier. Simpler.

"Let's go."

* * *

Later that night, the mole leads the three South Park boys across the snow outside the USO show. The backpack he stole from Kyle is stuffed full of equipment. He has his shovel and his rope.

He's ready for whatever hell the US government and Yardale School can throw at him.

Army trucks and tanks drive outside the USO show. Spotlights illuminate the sky. Music blares, and a voice shouts over the intercom, "Ladies and Gentlemen of the American army! Welcome to the USO show! Get ready for loads of entertainment and fun with fabulous celebrities, followed immediately by the nasty execution of Terrance and Phillip!"

The four kids are on a hill a few hundred feet away from the stage set up for the show. It's night out, so black and cold the mole shivers in his thin t-shirt. The mole waves on the South Park kids and the four of them stand on the hill and stare down at the show.

"Zis ees ze USO show," he says, just in case they're too boneheaded to figure it out, "where zose military beetches intend to kill Terrance and Phillip."

He takes a drag on his cigarette and narrows his eyes. The USO show is the lesser of two evils compared to Yardale, but the mole still doesn't want to be here.

_Follow orders and you'll survive. _He shuts down any disgruntled thoughts and surveys the area, going over his plan in his head.

"Oh my god," Kyle says, staring at the show in front of them. This far away, they can only make out the tiny heads of the soldiers as they wait for the entertainment to start.

The mole finds the shocked, naïve expression on Kyle's face rather amusing, so he says. "God? 'E ees ze biggest beetch of zem all."

His cigarette is dying, so he flicks it away and pulls out another from his pack. He only has four left.

"We have to hurry," Stan says. "We rendezvous with the other kids at ten."

The mole glances down at his watch. 9:40. Huh. Twenty minutes to complete his plan and save Terrance and Phillip. Twenty minutes till he has to run for his life to escape from Yardale.

Or he could just go with the Yardale bitches and save himself the trouble.

Inside, Christophe is screaming, but the hard, cold exterior of the mole doesn't care. Whichever option ends with the least pain for him is the option he'll go with.

He wonders if the other kids realize how serious this is. He's about to mention their impeding deaths, then figures if they know the truth, they're start crying or something. Little kids are weird like that. He decides to go with something they can handle.

"You realize zat by doing zis, we could be grounded for two, perhaps even zree weeks." Kids think grounding is bad, right? His parents seem to think so.

"We're willing to take that risk!" Stan says, still staring down at the USO show.

Morons. He smirks to himself. "Zen let's go." And they start to make their way down the hill.

* * *

Joyous shouts and music emit from the USO show. Outside, the four children are making their way through the defenses.

The mole pulls a wire cutter from his backpack and snaps one of the strings of barbed wire. The other is too thick, but it's high enough for them to crawl under.

"Be careful not to touch zis wire," he says, and then wriggles under the wire on his back. His shovel digs into his skin, but he won't let go of it, not for anything. The dirt around him clings to his clothes when he stands up on the other side of the wire. He dusts himself off and starts to army-crawl up the side of the small hill before the stands. The spotlights are still flickering over the sky and the ground, and he presses himself into the dirt to avoid them.

Behind him, he hears the fat kid catch in the wire, but he doesn't stop. He rests at the top of the small hill and waits for the kids to join him.

"_Sheet_," he says, "ze USO show 'as started. We are running out of time."

Just to screw with their minds, the mole pulls out a pair of kiddie binoculars he filched from Kyle's house, the kind that only show pictures of animals and such.

"Do you see Terrance and Phillip?" Kyle asks.

"Yes," he says. God, these little kids are so stupidly naïve. He fools around with them for a few seconds before getting to the point. "We 'ave to dig from 'ere so as not to be seen. Come on, _beetches_."

He pulls off his backpack and throws it to the side. Then he finds an open place on the ground, away from the snow. They're a few dozen feet outside the stands and the stage of the USO show.

He pulls his shovel off his back and can't help but smirk to himself again. He finally gets to use his shovel for something other than bashing heads in.

Inside his mind, eight-year-old Christophe is screaming _no, I can't use my magic, I can't_, but the mole again shuts away the part of him away that has doubts and fears.

He pushes the shovel into the dirt. A brief sigh echoes through him. The warm magic within him starts to buzz. The glow-y feeling moves up his hands and arms as he starts to dig.

For a second, everything disappears. The cheers of the soldiers, the bitter winter chill, the internal panic and worry he's trying so hard to push away. For a second it disappears, and he's left with the blissful feeling of magic.

"Hey, mole," Stan says behind him, startling him out of his euphoria, "Do you know where the clitoris is?"

"Ze what?" _What the fuck? _

"The clitoris. I have to find the clitoris to get this Wendy girl to like me-"

Christ, he forgot how stupid normal kids are. He whirls on him and grabs him by the collar again.

"'Ey! You need to stop zinking wiz your dick! You 'ave to be on your toes, because I am not going to –"

He's about to say die, but then he stops himself, because the last thing he needs is for these kids to start crying. He just wants them to get the picture.

"Because I am not going to be grounded again, not for you, not for anybody!"

God, it sounds stupid that way, but at least Stan nods, his eyes wide. He seems to have figured out that this isn't fun and games.

He returns to digging. The glowy, magical feeling with him builds. Within a few seconds he has a tunnel leading down into the earth. Again, he gestures for the South Park kids to follow him.

He digs through the darkness below, like a real mole, the glowing embers of his cigarette lighting his way. He knows it's his magic leading him on, and the scared-eight-year-old part of him urges him to go back, to stop using his magic. The mole presses onward, because he honestly doesn't care.

He digs his way under what he thinks is the gate (his magic sends vibrations up through the earth, and though he doubt the other kids can sense it, he knows it's there). Then he digs upwards until they've broken free of the earth below and are now back into the bitter cold of the world. His magic fades away once he stops digging.

A spotlight passes overhead. "_Sheet_!" He ducks down, avoiding it, then jumps back up once it's past. He pulls himself out of the hole, dirt cascading around him.

The South Park kids, their eyes huge in awe, jump after him. A quick glance around the area reveals that Gregory's notes are right. There are dozens of soldiers milling around them, many of them holding guard dogs. It's only because of the semi-darkness that they haven't been caught yet.

"Move, move!"

The four of them run to huddle behind a building a few dozen feet away from the stage where the USO show is taking place. He's acutely aware of the hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers watching the show. And they all have guns.

Ah, well, the mole has a plan and he's following it. The USO show is still the lesser of two evils compared to the wrath of Yardale School.

"Okay," the mole says in a low voice. The South Park kids huddle around him. "We will split up 'ere. Let's synchronize watches."

Kyle blinks. "We don't have watches."

"You don't 'ave watches?"

"Dude," Stan says, "you didn't say anything about watches."

. . . and he's constantly reminded about how fucking stupid small children are. He grabs Stan by the collar for what feels like the hundredth time. "What do you zink zis ees, kid? TV kiddie 'our where we all sit around and lick Barney ze Dinosaur's fucking pussy? Eh?" Stan opens his mouth to protest, but the mole keeps growling at him. "Zis ees real life wiz consequences you take to ze grave."

"Dude," Kyle snaps, "we don't have watches."

The mole releases Stan and turns to glare at him. "_Sheet_."

. . . there's nothing he can do. "Did you bring ze mirror?"

"Got it!" Stan says, pulling it from Cartman's backpack.

At least they're not completely idiotic. "And ze rope?"

"Check!" Stan says.

"Good." He takes a drag on his cigarette. "Now, listen carefully. I will dig under ze stage, and wiz zat bedrock, I will need more time. Stan and Kyle, get near ze stage and stall ze show, any way you can. Do whatever eet takes to keep zat show going, until I get ze prisoners."

"Okay," Stan says.

He seriously doubts these three morons can handle instructions this simple, but the mole doesn't have anything else to go by.

"Cartman," the mole says. The fat kid glances at him.

"Over zere ees ze electrical box. You must sneak over zere and shut eet off before I return wiz Terrance and Phillippe, or ze alarms will sound, and I will be attacked by guard dogs. Got it?"

"Okay," says Cartman.

"You must shut off ze alarms! I fucking 'ate guard dogs!"

"I heard you the first time, you British piece of shit!" An electrical shock buzzes through him. He lets out a yelp.

The mole isn't fond of the v-chip thing the MAC implanted in Cartman. It reminds him too much of the shock collar. The shock collar he is determined not to think about.

Cartman stalks off in the direction the mole pointed, presumably to turn off the alarms.

"Eef anyzing goes wrong," the mole tells Stan and Kyle, "you must make a sound like a dying giraffe."

Stan blinks. "Uhhhh . . . what's a dying giraffe sound like."

The mole demonstrates. Their shocked expressions make him smirk inwardly.

"'Kay." Stan says.

"Be careful, dude!" Kyle says.

The mole can't help it. A trace of bitterness enters his voice when he replies, even though he's been trying so damn hard to get rid of this whole 'emotion' thing. He leans in towards Kyle and hisses to him:

"Careful? Was my mother careful when she stabbed me in ze 'eart wiz a clozes 'anger while I was still in ze womb?"

He turns and starts to dig.

* * *

Stan and Kyle watch the hole where the mole disappeared for a few seconds.

Then Stan says, "Damn, dude, that kid is fucked up."

* * *

Below the earth, everything is peaceful and dark. He feels safe in the darkness. It's not like under his bed, but it's close enough. He buries his cigarette in the earth while he digs. The bedrock takes a few extra bashes, but his magic fuels his strength.

The familiar flow of his muscles, the even beating of his heart . . .

It feels like he's home again. _Home. Home. Home. _Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean.

Christophe breathes in the rich smell of the earth around him.

_Home._

"Having fun?" a familiar voice whispers in his ear.

He whirls. Everything's dark, but somehow he can still see, there's Martinez, crouched on the floor of the tunnel. She doesn't appear to be injured. For a second, he almost mistakes her for Maria. But that's impossible. Maria wouldn't be in this tunnel, smiling like that.

It's impossible.

"You know you won't succeed," she whispers to him. "And even if you do, they're going to drag you back."

"You're my friend," he tells her. "I befriended you, just like Mr. Carter told me to."

"Am I really?" she drawls. Her fingers dig into the earth as she drags herself towards him. "Way I see it, it's just you and me down here, and no shrink can tell you otherwise."

"You're not real," he tells her. "You can't hurt me."

"Then why are you holding your shovel up?"

He realizes he's hefted it in front of him instinctively.

"Awww, poor little broken Christophe is going crazy," she mocks. Her body slithers over the ground. Her legs crack and twist into awkward angles as she moves. Blood trails behind her. Her eyes widen until they seem to consume her face. "It's okay, Christophe, we're all a little fucked in the head, honest."

"Go away!" he screams. "You aren't real, and I'm not going to be captured again, I'm not!"

"No lying," she says. "Don't lie, don't lie, liars are punished, aren't they?" She reaches up a hand. Her fingers are half-decomposed lumps of flesh. Worms wriggle their way free of rotting skin. She notices his expression and makes a face. "This is your fault. You're the one who killed me, remember?"

"You're back at the school, _you're okay_-"

"Okay?" Her features twist in rage. "Christophe, how could I possibly be okay back there?"

"You're not real! I'm free, I'm free, I'm free!"

"_Moleymoleymoleymoleymoley_-" she sings out.

The mole hits her in the head with his shovel. The metal passes right through her and smacks against the ground. She smiles at him.

"You aren't real," the mole tells her. "I'm free. I fled and I left you behind. You aren't real, so go away."

Martinez vanishes.

The blood roars through his veins. It rushes in his ears, drowning out all other sound.

He turns and continues to dig his way through the earth.

* * *

His shovel hits wood above him. He jams his shovel upwards and manages to crack through the slats of wood. Somehow, he manages to stick another cigarette in his mouth and light it before he pushes his way up through the floorboards of the stage. The night air almost freezes his lungs. Adrenaline pumps through him. He's on the stage. An incredibly flamboyantly gay man captivates the soldiers.

"Okay, everybody," the flamboyantly gay man says. "Just wanna take a minute here to thank all our wonderful sponsors we had tonight on this USO show . . ."

The mole glances to his left to see Terrance and Phillip, each strapped to an electric chair. He scuttles over to them. He's got seconds before someone with two brain cells to rub together notices him, although it might take a bit longer with a crowd like South Park.

Terrance and Phillip stare down at him.

"Shh!" the mole says when Terrance opens his mouth to speak. "We are 'ere to rescue you. After I release you, follow me zrough ze tunnel."

And then finally, finally this will be over, and the Yardale School won't be trying to kill him anymore, and –

And then an alarm goes off.

Blaring. Shrieking.

The mole's heart skips a beat.

Yardale School is still the greater of two evils, so he grabs his pocketknife and starts to saw away at Terrance's bindings. Then a spotlight focuses on him.

He jumps, squeaking a little in shock. His cigarette falls from his mouth. "Ah! _Sheet_!"

"A spy!" A woman on the other side of the stage shrieks.

"Get him!" one of the generals yells.

And then the soldiers release three guard dogs.

Yardale School becomes the lesser of the evils.

"_Sheet_! _Sheet_!" He scrambles for his tunnel, diving headfirst down into it. The cold comfort of the dirt engulfs him, but the guard dogs bark and growl behind him. He can feel them gnawing at his legs and dragging him back. One clamps down on his foot. He shakes it off and continues to push himself forward.

Pure fear numbs his mind. The panic grows too great, and it strips away the hard outer shell that is the Mole, leaving just a frightened Christophe, leaving just a frightened eight-year-old boy.

He keeps clawing forward, even though his fingernails are ripped to stubs, even though the guard dogs sink their teeth into his torso and rip off hunks of flesh. Adrenaline scours the pain from him. All he can do is wretch himself forward, handhold after handhold, as the dogs steal flesh and blood from his body and the darkness of the tunnel devours him.

* * *

Somehow, Christophe makes his way to surface.

Somehow.

The guard dogs left him back in the tunnel. They'd had their meal of his body.

He can feel his life leeching away.

It's kind of a weird feeling, to tell the truth.

The other three South Park kids are around him, staring down at him anxiously.

"Ze alarms," he coughs out. "Zey went off."

"Yeah, that was my bad. Sorry," the fat kid says.

He coughs again. Blood trickles out of his mouth. He collapses into Kyle's arms.

"'old me," he mutters. "Eet ees . . . so very cold . . ."

His vision starts to disappear until all he can see are shapes and colors above him.

"Zere ees no 'ope now," he manages. "You must get out of 'ere."

Is this how Gregory wanted it? Is this the only thing he could do for the Yardale School to accept his humanity?

He didn't want to die for their cause. He didn't want to die for anyone's cause.

"We can't leave without you!" Kyle says, but his voice is far off and Christophe can barely make out the syllables.

"Eet's okay," he mumbles, because it doesn't matter anymore. "I'm done for."

Kyle says something else, but Christophe can't hear it beyond the faintest whisper.

"Where ees your God when you need 'im, eh? Where ees your beautiful, merciful faggot now?" He coughs and stares up in the direction he thinks is the sky.

"'Ere I come, God. 'ere I come, you fucking rat!"

He supposes God must be laughing now. All the things he's done, all the shit Christophe has put up with, the lengths he's taken-

To die like this.

To die in the arms of a boy he barely knows for a cause he barely cares about, just because he was afraid of the Yardale School.

He's not afraid anymore.

His battle magic surges inside him, but Christophe pushes it down. He's too far gone, he thinks, too far gone to heal, and he wants to die clean, not filled with the magic he stole.

He flips off the air above him. His vision is black now. He can't hear anything. He makes his lips move and he barely knows what he's saying.

There are worse causes to die for. At least he died for freedom . . . for fucking justice.

At least he died outside of Yardale.

A smile flickers over his lips.

At least there's that.

"_Now, ze light, she fades-"_

He can't even hear his own voice now. He hopes his pronunciation is decent. English has never been his strong point. _  
_

"_And darkness settles een."_

He wishes he could see Maria and Chase one more time (now that he's almost dead, he doesn't really mind admitting it).

_"But I will find strengz-"_

Oh, and he would've liked to slice Ms. Grayson's throat, that smug bitch-

_"I will find pride wizin."_

Maybe Gregory will one day.

"_Because alzough I die-"_

Oh, god, he hopes Gregory does, he hopes they all find the strength. He doesn't want them to belong to the school, he wants them to be free, they have to be free-

_"Our freedom will be won."_

They have to be free. They have to fight back. They have to stop being afraid.

"_Zough I die, La Resistance… lives…"_

He's tired. He's been tired for a long time.

". . . _On _. . . "

And then poor little broken Christophe Simon finally dies.


	23. Chapter 23

I have great news. The swimming season is officially over! And since we only swim eleven months out of the year, that means I'm back in town with absolutely nothing to do until school starts! If anyone lives in Clovis, California, all I can say is that you have an amazing swimming pool.

So. I've been writing a lot. I'm not going to apologize for how late this is, damn it. I just hope you all like this chapter. This was supposed to be the penultimate chapter, but it got too long and I had to split it in half. Thank you all so much for the reviews in the last chapter and I hope you enjoy this one as much.

Music:

"Lex" by Ratatat

"Let's Kill Tonight" by Panic! at the Disco

"Song For No One" by Miike Snow

I know I've said this before, but the next update should be a lot quicker. -_- Don't forget to review!

* * *

Maria knows this is a really, really bad idea.

She tries to convince Chase of this fact as the two of them make their way to the roof.

"We can't get the collars off," she says. "There's no way. And even if we did, they'd track us down in a heartbeat. There's no way. No point."

He rolls his eyes and continues to drag her up the stairs. Their gasping breathes punctuate the frenzy of Yardale School around them. Soldiers' footsteps pound through the halls below them. Angels shout orders. The chaos isn't devoted to them, though, and for that, Maria is thankful to Christophe. She also knows he's probably going to die really, really soon.

The door to the roof is locked, as it always is. Chase smashes it open with a single kick. Ten years ago, Maria couldn't get through this door when it mattered the most. They're stronger now, smarter and wiser as they head out into open air and the frigid night air freezes their lungs. But it's not enough, because they still have the fucking collars and they still belong to Yardale School.

"This is stupid. We're going to get in trouble."

"Maria, would you just shut up for a second?" Chase snaps. She falls silent. When he raises his voice, it means he's dead serious (she's only heard him do so twice in the past eleven years).

"Look, I have this." He pulls a knife out from under his standard-issue jacket. It's a butcher knife, long and gleaming sharp. Maria can't bite back her sarcasm.

"Oh, yeah, because knives can cut through metal. I totally forgot that. Thanks, Chase, you saved the day."

"I'm trying to get us out of here." His chocolate milk eyes lock with her brown ones.

"We've tried," she says. "Remember the last time we had a serious escape attempt?"

Even though it was over ten years ago, she can still feel her nasal passageways flood with water, feel the liquid burn in her lungs like acid. Hours and hours of it, then interrogations, then the drownings again. Four days of that with no sleep and no food, just the endless water.

Okay, she's afraid. So freaking what? Anyone would be afraid of that.

"Christophe and Damien did it," he points out.

"They're pumping soldiers after them, and you heard the angels talk, Christophe and Damien had Hellspawn help them get the collars off. I seriously doubt we're going to get the Hellspawn to help us get the collars off. They'd as soon as shred us. What the fuck are you doing?"

Chase ignores her. He continues to hold the knife up and narrow his eyes at it. Their collars have tightly controlled mechanisms that limit their use of magic. When they're on missions, the blocking mechanism in the collars is electronically relaxed to the point where they can use most of their fighting magic. When they're back at the Yardale School, the blocking mechanism goes up to the point where it takes a huge strain to use any magic. A simple healing charm to close up a cut on her hand makes her sweat and concentrate for over a minute.

Now she watches in horror as Chase focuses all of his magical energy into the knife. It starts to glow.

"What the hell? The angels know when we use magic! Stop it! They'll figure out about your bullshit escape attempt!"

Chase presses the knife against his collar. Nothing happens.

"It's sky metal," she says. "A flimsy spell's not going to crack it. And the angels know when we try to break the collar. We're fucked. Let's go back down now and maybe we won't be too fucked."

He shakes his head. "No," he mutters out. "No. I have to get you out of here."

"Get me out of here?" She grabs his shoulders and makes him look her in the eye. "Chase, they'll freaking hurt you if they think we were trying to take advantage of the chaos made when Christophe and Damien made their half-brained escape attempt . . . which we were! I already know Christophe's gonna die from all this!" She swallows hard and manages to keep the tears from her eyes, because she's strong like that. "I don't want you to be hurt in any way, shape, or form, not to help me. Please."

They both stiffen when they hear the pounding in the staircase below, the soldiers shouting, "they're up on the rooftops!"

"Fuck, they've figured out we've been trying to – quick, throw that away, maybe we'll look-"

He steers her over to the edge of the roof. "I have to get you out of here," he hisses with an icy gleam to his eyes, and then he brings the knife to his jaw.

She screams and tries to grab him, but he pushes her back and she stumbles until her butt hits the concrete. She keeps screaming but she's too late, too fucking late, he's already made the cuts.

His knees connect with the roof. Chunks of flesh and shards of bone fleck to the cement roof. Blood pours out from his face. His hands continue to thrust the knife back and forth, sawing away. The charmed blade slices through the flesh and bone and Maria keeps on screaming.

She scrambles up manages to collapse next to him. Blood puddles on the ground and stains her sweatpants. Chase's hands are still moving, even though his face has been stripped back to expose the bare bones underneath. His fingers struggle with the collar. And it slips over his head, only catching once on his remaining ear, because he cut off enough of his face for it to fit. His magic must be keeping him upright, because no human should be able to go through this and still be moving.

"Fucking moron!" she screams, trying to pump healing magic into him, but the collar around her neck keeps it locked inside of her. It starts to strain out into his flesh, a golden glows that seeps through his wounds. Sweat mats in her hair.

Chase's hand grabs at her wrist. He has no grip and no pressure to his hold. His sightless gaze locks on her. Then he starts to force his magic inside of her.

She gasps as it floods her. The barrage tingles through ever inch of her skin, lighting up the world, making her see white. Her skin feels warm and her panic drips away, even though she's whispering for Chase to stop being such a fucking moron, that he has to heal himself, that he has to live, that she can't live without him-

The collar around her neck explodes in a shatter of metal.

She lets out a sob and grabs at Chase, sending magic into him. She's never used her full strength of magic before, and the sheer power leaves her half-breathless. His skin flies back over his face and bones stretches and fills out the slices he made. A choked whimper escapes her.

_Please. I've done so fucking much for you and I never wanted to. We've drunk your soul, we've fought your demons, and we'll win this goddamned war for you. I've never really asked anything of you. So please. Please. Let him live. _

And maybe God isn't such a bastard after all, because in just a few seconds Chase draws in a breath and relaxes it. His breath catches again. And then he starts to breath in a regular, even pattern.

Maria's hands fall to her side.

His face is healthy and whole, and even though his eyes are closed in unconsciousness, he's smiling.

"There they are!"

She turns to see the soldiers pouring out onto the rooftop with their machine guns raised.

Something akin to a scream builds inside of her.

She's sick of this. Fucking sick of being afraid all the time. She's been cowering in fear for the last ten years.

She used to be brave. She used to tell the _maricones_ to go fuck themselves when they threatened her. She knows when she lost the fight. She can still feel the slick, bitter agony of the knife inside her, still hear her brother's derisive laughter.

She's sick of being this broken, trembling thing that follows the fucking rules.

Magic explodes from her. Liquid dragons rise up from the rooftops and pounce upon the soldiers. They scream as the deluge sweeps them back down the steps. She stands with her fists clenched, eyes narrowed, water swirling around her. Her heart beats fast enough she thinks it's going to burst out of her chest. But the adrenaline searing through her veins feels fucking good.

She kneels down next to Chase and starts to scoop him up. The magic in every nerve of her body lends strength to her arms. She's almost standing up when a column of air slams into her and bowls her over. She sprawls out an inch away from the edge of the roof.

She sits up and whirls to face her new opponent. Her stomach clenches.

Gregory stands at the doorway. Air currents swirl around his fists, lazy flickers in the air. His hair floats in a crown around his head. His gaze locks with hers.

"We've got the collars off," she says. "We've got the collars off, we can get out of here, I can get yours off, too!"

He juts his chin into the air. "Maria Martinez, I'm going to have to request you stop the use of your magic and willingly subject yourself to detainment."

"Don't use the fancy talk," she hisses out. "We're getting out of here!"

"Where do you plan to go? There are angels in every inch of the world. We can't fight them. We must join them."

"Christophe and Damien got out!" she screams, knowing she's using the same argument Chase used on her less than five minutes ago. "We can too!"

"There are angels on every corner of Manhattan by now. Christophe will be dead in less than an hour. Please use logic, Maria, or I'm going to have to force you."

"I'm brave enough," she whispers. "I was scared, too, just like you, but I'm brave enough to overcome it. Why can't you be, too?"

He says nothing in reply, just raises his fists. The air currents start to increase.

Her gaze falls on Chase. He's ten feet away from her. Too far.

She doesn't know if she can leave without him.

Christophe did it before.

Even if she'll be alone, she'll still be fighting.

She lets her magic relax. Gravity grabs at the water floating in the air around her. It hits the concrete pavement of the roof and evaporates away within a second. Gregory nods in approval.

She takes a step towards him. Then she turns and jumps off the roof.

She falls for half a second, pure panic buried in her bones. Then she remembers the spell and screams it, screams it as loud as she can even with the wind whipping her words away.

The wings snaps out and catch her ten feet above the ground. Momentum rips as her and drags her into the sky. She pinwheels forward as her speed vaults her through the air. Her wings drag on the air and she manages to slow her wild flight.

She flaps, slowly, growing used to the appendages as she drifts into the air. They're each over twenty feet longs, and they should be too large for her to move if not for the magic embedded in each feather. Light brown spots freckle her wings, and the golden glow of magic illuminates her entire body. Cold air slides in and out of her throat, making her breath catch.

This is what it must feel like to be free.

She hears a whooshing sound and looks back to see another winged form swooping through the sky after her. Gregory.

She learned this spell a couple years ago and hasn't flown since. She knows Gregory is a lot stronger than her. The panic flares up again, and she tilts herself forward and starts to flap.

She's fast. Wind brings tears to her eyes and freezes her bare arms. The moon illuminates the shaggy grass below her body. When she flies over a pool, the reflection reveals that Gregory is less than twenty feet behind her.

"Just let me go!" she screams.

In response, he picks up his pace and lunges through the sky to grab onto her foot.

She shrieks and kicks out, but his grip on her remains strong. They summersault above the earth, a mass of shaking feathers and heaving bodies and frantic movements.

"Let me go!"

She wriggles her foot free and kicks out, landing it straight in his stomach. He falls back and she sees an expression in his eyes she can't place.

She sees him catch himself, and she starts to flap as fast as she can, knowing he'll be after her in a second.

Instead, he hangs in the air there for a moment, clutching at his stomach as if she actually hurt him.

She knows she didn't.

At least, she thinks she didn't.

She decides it really doesn't freaking matter.

Her wings carry her, soaring, through the sky. She's seconds ahead of Gregory, but he's slow to follow her, and she gains speed and races in the air until she's flying alone above the earth and free, free, free.

* * *

Kyle slows his pace to let us catch up when he sees the two of us racing after him. I grip at Damien's wrist so nothing can separate him from me.

"Fags," Cartman says.

Kyle punches him in the face. Cartman stumbles back, growling about the 'sneaky covetous Jew.' We all ignore him.

"Okay, okay, we have to get out of here fast," Stan says.

"Right now," I agree.

We start to weave our way through the streets. It's been long enough since the ball drop for the sidewalks to have cleared out somewhat, but I still have to push my way through pedestrians. Elbows jab into my ribcage. I grit my teeth and the five of us make our way into an alleyway.

"Should we catch a bus or something?" Kyle asks.

Damien and I give him our best 'I thought you were smarter than that' looks.

"Uh . . . no?"

"Yardale School has figured out we've escaped already, hence the helicopters," Damien says. "They'll start sending a shitload of people after us soon. We need more efficient means of escape."

"Like what?" Kenny asks.

"Can any of you fly?"

Their eyes widen.

"Uh . . . kind of . . . for like ten seconds." Kyle scratches his head. "You're suggesting we . . ."

"It's one of the better options," Damien says. Then the heavy '_thump-thump-thump'_ sound pierces the relative peace of the alleyway. We all glance up.

A helicopter roars towards us, a few hundred feet away. I know, know without a doubt, there are Low Heavenfilth in there. I feel it in my gut.

_RATATATATATATAT!_

Bullets bounce off the pavement below us. Kyle cries out when one hits his arm. Kenny's body hits the grimy alley floor. I don't spare a second's consideration him, and, ignoring Stan and Kyle's respective cries of, 'Oh My God, they killed Kenny!' 'You bastards!', I start to drag Damien from the alley.

"Ze street," I pant back him. "Zey won't shoot at us zere. Too many people."

"I thought it was the bad guys who were supposed to use innocent civilians for cover."

"Shut up."

Kyle, Stan, and Cartman on our heels, we burst into the throng of humans. They glower at us, but we proceed to sink into the crowd and let ourselves be absorbed by the massive amounts of humans shifting through Manhattan's streets at two in the morning.

"Maybe we can hold onto the wings for longer," Kyle pants at us. "If we have to."

Damien shakes his head. "Nah, they'll just shoot us down from the sky right now." Then a grin stretches across his lips. He touches his neck. "Or I could just do the same to them."

We all glance up at the helicopter in the sky, which has been joined by another one. Damien stretches out a hand and points to the first one.

A sliver of light shoots out from his fingertip and stretches out to form a line between him and the chopper. The light illuminates the helicopter.

"Hmm," he says. "What should I do with it?"

We all stare at him.

"Just to remind them I'm the fucking antichrist," he says, and he pulls back his arm and throws.

The helicopter topples through the sky, shooting off until it's out of our line of sight. I hear a distant explosion.

Damien smirks and extends his pointer finger to entrap the second helicopter in the light, but a translucent shield pops up around the chopper and the light bounces off.

"Damn," he growls. "They've got an angel up there to fend off my attacks. I guess I'll just have to hit them a little-"

His expression flattens. He stares at nothing for a moment, then turns to me and says, "Christophe, do you hear that?"

"'ear what?"

"That ticking noise. It's like, like a –" His eyes widen.

"Holy fuck, get away from me! Get everyone away from me!" He pushes me back and I stumble away, falling into the crowd. I see his eyes dance with magic and a ring of fire shoots up around him, half-encasing him. Pedestrians scream and back away, leaving him with a twenty-foot radius of clear space on the sidewalk.

"Damien? What ze fuck are you doing?" I scream, and start towards him.

BOOM.

* * *

There are no descriptions, no words for the force that drags me away and sends me headfirst into something solid. Pain explodes through my body, but the sheer shock drowns out the agony. I think I'm screaming. Maybe. I can't tell over the roaring in my ears. When I try to open my eyes, something seals them shut. I disentangle from arms from whatever they're buried under and start to pry at the gunk on my eyelids. The first things I see when I open them are my scraped-up, bruised hands.

My entire body is shaking. I gulp down air, which makes me cough. I hack for a solid minute before I regain control of myself again. My lower body is buried in dust-coated rubble. I appear to have hit a wall to an office building. Plaster weighs me down. I start to wriggle my way free, but half to stop several times for a coughing fit. There's a ringing in my ears, an incessant clanging sound that drowns everything else out.

I free myself and slouch down on the ruined remains of the sidewalk. I make it to my hands and knees before I start throwing up. By the time I'm finished, I can half-hear again. Car and fire alarms blare. Human screams pierce my eardrums. I shake my head and clamber to my feet.

The pain starts to seep through my system. By the poke-and-wince elimination system, I determine three of my ribs are broken and several others are cracked. Blood runs down my face and clouds my vision. I hold my hand to the cut on my forehead and try to walk.

The agony explodes through me. I stop and take a deep breath, which only makes it worse. Tears come to my eyes against my will. My knees hit the ground. The pain sends nausea rolling through me. It hurts so badly I black out for a second, and when I open my eyes my cheek is pressed against the cement.

"_GRAAAAHHH_!"

The pain threatens to render me unconscious again. I sit up and place a hand over my wounded ribs. I cough again, and I hear something inside my body crack. I bend over and try to puke but it doesn't work.

I can't breathe. Oh, god, I can't breathe. My vision starts to go dim and I know if I black out now I'll never wake up again.

_Calm, Christophe, calm. You can heal yourself. Okay. You can heal yourself. Use your magic. Use it. Now._

_ No_! I cry.

_Fucking use your magic!_ the voice of logic snarls.

I close my eyes and reach out for the rope, and it takes several tries, because my metaphorical hands keep disappearing with every stab of pain. I manage to latch onto it and hurriedly wrap the rope around my body. My skin itches and I start to 'sting.' I open my eyes and, fuzzily, make out the dim light emanating off me.

_Heal_, I think, and then I pass out.

* * *

I wake up about five minutes later to a surprisingly little amount of pain. I sit up straight and pull up my jacket and shirt to see the fading purple splotches on my torso. My body is still glowing. I'm torn being happy or pissed about this, but then my mind interrupts with _HOLY FUCK WHERE'S DAMIEN?_

I jump to my feet and almost trip. Only my natural grace (read: a pole) keeps me from toppling over. I glance around the street wildly. Survivors are picking themselves out of the wreckage and rubble. I spot Stan pulling a little girl from a burning pile of cardboard halfway down the street.

My feet move of their own accord. I stumble towards the spot where the five of us had been standing. Black scorch marks mar the cement. And in the center is what remains of Damien.

The blast stripped away his clothes and skin, revealing him down to chunks of red, exposed muscle. Most of his upper body is missing, including his head. My stomach lurches. Somehow I puke yet again. I only know it's him by the scraps of black fabric around the corpse.

I bend over him. My fingers flutter at his body. My vision blurs. My cheeks are wet.

"Damien?" I whisper.

"Damien?"

There's something black pulsing over his flesh. It's almost a light. I dip my fingers into the translucent blackness and have to pull away. It stings.

It's magic.

He's alive.

His heart still pounds sluggishly, even though his ribs have been torn away and his internal organs spill out on the ground.

I can see the skin start to stitch back together. A layer of muscle coats the bony remains of his feet, and then skin forms over it. The skin starts to move up his legs. Arms start to sprout off his torso. Bones shoot up from his neck and a skull reforms. His ribs enclose his heart again. A healthy coating of skin covers him up. Eyes pop into place on his skull, which makes me scream. Then the eyelids form and cover them and I manage to relax my fingers. Skin encases his skull. And then hair sprouts from his scalp, almost an inch of it.

He lies there, naked, looking reborn, his eyes closed and his expression peaceful.

I tip my head down and press my head against his chest, and I hear his heart.

"Christophe?" he says groggily. "Why are you crying?"

I look up at him to see his red-tinged eyes have opened.

"You fucking moron!" I yell, and I grab him and pull him into a hug.

"Oh," he mumbles. "Hi. Remind me never to let anyone implant a bomb in my head again. Regenerating hurts like a bitch."

"'ow ze 'ell deed you manage to do zat?" I rasp out.

"I cast a regeneration spell on myself before the bomb went off. Didn't have time to get it out of my skull." He rubs his head and smiles up at me. "Aw, you're still crying."

"Shut up," I growl, but I hold onto him for a second longer.

We both stand up. A pair of jeans materializes on his legs. He glances up into the sky.

"The helicopter's gone. They must have flown off to avoid the blast. Or they're coming down to street level to salvage whatever survivors they can. So they can make sure none of us are alive." He laughs as if it's funny.

"We need to find ze ozzers."

Stan and Kyle are both healing up survivors a few hundred feet away. Cartman is watching them and eating out of a bag of cheesy-poofs.

"We need to get out of here," Damien informs them. "Fast."

Kyle looks up at him with vague interest. "Oh. You're alive. That's nice." He returns to the half-dead little boy underneath him. "I need to heal him up." His hands glow and he presses them to the little boy's chest.

"Yeah. Um. No. We're getting out of here."

"These people are dying because we were here!" Kyle yells. "We have to do something to fix it."

"Zey are dead," I say, "because ze Yardale School is made of fucking beetches. Now we 'ave to leave."

Stan shoots me an angry glare, but before he can say anything, gunfire cracks. We all whirl. Cartman drops his bag of cheesy poofs. Soldiers pour down the street. They point their machine guns at us and fire at will. A bullet buries in my shoulder and white-hot pain floods through me. I grab at the wound, snarling curses.

A shield flickers up twenty feet in front of us. Sweat pours down Damien's face. The soldiers reach the shield and start to pound against it. Spider-thin cracks run up the shield.

"Fuck," Damien gasps. "I'm out of magic." His knees hit the ground. Stan throws up his hands and Kyle and Cartman copy him. As Damien's shield fades, another forms in front of us, less than ten feet away. This shield shimmers, and I know the unpracticed Hellspawns' magic won't last long.

I kneel down next to Damien. Blood makes my fingers slippery and they squelch around in the wound. I dig them into my flesh. A mangled gasp escapes me as I yank the bullet out.

"Do you have any magic left?" I hiss.

"Urghh . . . maybe . . ." he mutters.

"Get us out of 'ere, fast!"

"Don't know how to teleport yet . . . " he mumbles.

""Do somezing, anyzing!" I drop the bullet to the ground and extend my hands, ignoring the nerve endings in my shoulder. I twist my fingers with his. He looks up at me, his eyes blurry and his new hair sticking up with sweat.

My magic keeps trying to heal my wound, but I force it away and make it head into my fingertips, connecting with Damien. His body starts to glow, and the light trails over his hands to encompass my body too. We smile weakly at each other.

Far-off, I hear Stan scream as the shield breaks. But Damien has already risen to his feet. His left hand continues to clench at my wrist as he lifts his right fist. Then he drives a punch into the pavement at our feet.

For a second, the world sighs.

Then the sidewalk below us cracks open.

I yelp and jump to the other side of the crack to stand with Damien. The soldiers cry out and draw back as the ground starts to shake. We all fall on our asses, our limbs entangling as we roll around. I end up with a mouthful of Stan's hair and Kyle's elbow jabbed into the wound on my shoulder. Somehow, Damien keeps holding onto me.

The earth shrieks as it opens up. The grating sound scratches away at the inside of my ears. After almost a minute, the shaking resides, and the five of us manage to stand up.

We stare down into the crevice. It extends far down into darkness, and I sense we're looking down into the metaphorical center of the earth instead of the physical one.

The soldiers have started to regain their footing. They start towards us again.

"Jump!" Damien croaks out.

We leap into the blackness.

* * *

The first thing I'm aware of is the headache. It hurts so much I decide I'd rather still be unconscious, so I keep my eyes closed, but it doesn't go away, so I grudgingly open them and sit up.

Damien lies sprawled around next to me. The other South Park boys, including Kenny, tangle up in a pile a dozen feet from the two of us. Everyone is still passed out.

It reeks of copper and brimstone. The angel side to me repels the flavor. I gulp hard in an attempt not to retch. It's like Damien's own (admittedly) sour smell, times a thousand. My eyes water. It takes a few second before I can focus on the rest of my surroundings.

Craggy rock formations are strewn around us. Smoke clogs the air, and a black sky above lends a murky cast to our surroundings. I cough again as I stand up. Dust cascades from my body. I go into paranoid mode. There are a few human-looking people in sight, a few hundred feet off, working with pickaxes against the rock. A low, groaning sounds echoes through the cavern. No one seems to be a threat, but they could turn on us within a second, even though they don't appear to have noticed us.

I recognize my surroundings. We're in hell.

"Argghh." Damien staggers to his feet, rubbing his temples. "I didn't know it worked like that! I thought we'd end up in my house."

I roll my eyes. "_Oui. _Pure genius. Cast a spell you do not know about to send us straight down to 'ell."

"Hey, it got us out of there!"

"I suppose zere ees zat." As a show of gratitude, I punch him in the shoulder.

Slowly, Stan, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman awaken and get to their feet. And by 'slowly', I mean we kicked them until they got up.

"I hope the angels didn't hurt any of the other people up there," Kyle says, adjusting his green trapper's hat.

"New York City ees 'eaven-allied. Zey will be doing as much as zey can to 'elp zem," I say.

Damien comes up to stand next to me. For a few seconds we just stare out at the landscape beyond us.

"What do we do now?" It hurts to admit that I don't always know everything.

He narrows his eyes. "We talk to my father."

* * *

When the demons discover the Prince of Darkness and four other High Heavenfilth in their midst, they usher us through a city and up to Satan's less-than-imposing apartment by the river Styx.

Damien enters the apartment without knocking. Satan eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Son! You got out!" he says.

"Yeah, I did. Thanks a lot." He surveys the room. I stand next to him and cross my arms. Seaver stands at Satan's desk, holding a stack of files. He smiles at us without letting it reach his eyes. The South Park boys stand behind us and try to look as imposing.

"Why do you have a High Heavenfilth with you, son?" Satan asks.

Damien sighs. "Dad, we've been over this. You know, when I was with the angels and having the shit tortured out of me and being threatened with death and stuff. He's my hus- I mean, he's my consort."

Predictably, the South Park boys behind us snicker. "That's so gay," Cartman says, which is probably not the most intelligent thing to ever come out of his mouth. Kyle is still giggling and doesn't tell him off.

"I'm not sure I approve."

"I don't care. I got out on my own. It's nice to know you're glad to see me. Been, you know, a couple years since I've been down to hell. Whatever. This isn't about me. It's about the war, dad."

Seaver sighs and sits down at the desk across from Satan. He still doesn't say anything.

"We just got the fuck out of the middle of New York City, which was swarming with Angels and soldiers. A lot of people were hurt. And I know you don't care about the people on earth, but the people in hell will be hurt to, and the dead can be killed again and sent to Nothing. Dad, don't this. We have to stop this war before it gets to late. Before the whole world is destroyed and there's nothing to fight over."

Satan inspects Damien. "The angels put you up to this, didn't they?"

"What? No! Dad, this is just fucking common sense! What the hell do we have to fight, anyway? Because of fucking destiny or something? Bullshit! That's-"

"It's wrong," Kyle interjects. "It's wrong, period. We're sick of fighting and we don't want people to be hurt."

Satan's gaze falls on the four High Hellspawn. "It's been a long time since I've seen you four," he says. "When Damien picked the five of you, I wasn't sure if you'd be strong of will enough to bear the power, but it looks like you all turned out just fine. Except for the one that's kidnapped and mutilated and probably dead, of course."

"Wait, wait, you picked us? What the fuck are you talking about?" Stan starts to glare at Damien. I raise my eyebrows and wait for his explanation.

"Look . . . when I was in South Park when I was a kid. . . my dad sent me there because it was supposed to get some sort of human experience, too. And for like a year before I went there, he worked on changing the alignment of the whole town so you guys slowly became more and more hell-allied, so you wouldn't try to rip me to shreds the second I showed up in your school. And he also asked me to pick out five kids to be my 'brothers', for him to share his soul with, so you could fight in the future war or something. That's probably why a lot of weird shit always happens to you?"

"It's your fault?" Stan asks in disbelief. "You're why all this crazy shit has happened to us and our lives are never normal? And we've got these powers? And they killed all those freaking people?" His fists clench.

"It wasn't me, it was my father and this stupid war," Damien snaps back. He and Stan keep glaring at each other.

Finally, Stan works his jaw and manages to spit out, "Whatever. Doesn't matter right now."

Damien breathes hard and focuses on his father again. "Kyle's right. We're sick of fighting. We're supposed to be the main counter to the High Heavenfilth, right? Well, we're not going to fight. Just for your information. So forget any chance of winning the war. Pull back now or you'll all die."

"Why the hell is this asshole speaking for us?" Cartman growls under his breath. Kyle elbows him and he yelps.

"Well, dad?"

Satan sighs. "I realize all teens go through a rebellious phase, but this is really bad timing-"

"Fuck, dad! This isn't a fucking rebellious phase, this is fucking common sense!" He grits his teeth and turns to me. "Help me out?"

I shrug. He narrows his eyes.

He lets out a frustrated growl and stomps out of the room. I trail after him and the South Park kids follow us. He stalks along the river Styx with his hands jammed into his pockets. The full fire-and-brimstone stench fills my nostrils and I'm forced to breath through my mouth.

"Why didn't you help me out back there?" he demands after a minute. The South Park Hellspawn mutter amongst themselves behind us.

I shrug. "I personally zink ze best course of action ees to find a cave in northern Canada to 'ide een."

He stops and glares at me. "I thought you were-"

"Zat might be ze best course of action, but eet ees not ze one I am going to take."

He grins. His smile is strained and exhausted, but it's there.

"Your fazzer ees not going to listen to us because 'e zinks we are just kids. Ze angels are ze same. We 'ave to make zem listen to us, and shouting at zem ees not going to 'elp."

He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. "Right. What do we do?"

I grin back. "You 'ave changed, cocksucker. Who would zink ze antichrist would be trying to end ze war one day?"

"You've shown me the light," he responds, and opens his eyes to stare down at me. Without me noticing it, we've moved to stand close enough for me to hear his comforting heartbeat.

"Oh, and I got the shit tortured out of me a bunch of times. Kind of changes a demon's perspective a bit."

I take his hand. "You do know eet will be all right, _oui_?"

"You're lying." But he squeezes my hand just the same.

"Eh! If you guys are done having your lovey-dovey moment," Cartman says, "how about we get out of here?"

* * *

There's a hotel by the mouth of the river Styx, a perfectly innocuous looking hotel with white doors and a lobby and a service elevator, and it's where the survivors of the South Park demon attack are staying.

Stan collapse on a couch in the lobby. Kyle collapses in his lap and they briefly cuddle together. They must have decided to be open about their relationship or something. Damien and I take up another couch, and Cartman and Kenny grab a third, although they're not quite as cuddly.

"So . . ." I say awkwardly after a second. "What 'appened in Souz Park?"

"Christophe, shut up and let me sleep." Damien drapes himself against me and closes his eyes. I pretend to gasp under his weight.

"They killed a lot of people," Stan says. He blinks and rubs some of the ash smear from his face. All of us are grimy and battle-weary.

"I am sorry about zat."

"Including Kenny's parents." Stan's voice drops in volume. "That's why whenever he dies, now, he just comes back wherever he was a couple hours later."

"I am sorry," I say again, much more pathetically.

Kenny shrugs. "I can still see them whenever I die, although they can't come to this hotel because it's where the living are. We're kind of just visitors in Hell."

"I am still sorry." I've been saying that word too much recently.

The elevator dings open behind Kenny and a boy wearing a blue coat and hat steps into the lobby. His name dances on the edge of my brain for a second before I recall it. Craig stalks over to us and glares at me and Damien for a second before jerking his attention to Stan and Kyle.

"So. How'd the liberating our planet go?"

"Not well."

"Figures as much." Craig flips me off. I flip him off back. We stare at each other for a few seconds before coming to a silent, mutual agreement and turning back to Stan.

"So, are we stuck in hell for he rest of our lives, then?" he half-snarls.

"I don't know yet. I'm working on it."

Kyle starts to give Stan a back massage. Craig makes a gagging noise.

"And if you would stop being such a dick," Stan continues, the anger in his voice rising, "maybe this would be easier."

The elevator dings again. A girl with long black hair and a purple sweater stumbles into the lobby, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "You guys know it's like three in the morning?" she mumbles.

"Hey, babe!" Stan dislodges himself from Kyle and stands up to peck a quick kiss on her cheek. I gawk at him.

"Oh, yeah, Christophe. This is my girlfriend, Wendy Testaburger."

"I remember 'er," I manage. "Er . . . you swing boz ways, zen?"

"What? Oh, no, gross, dude! Girls only for me."

"But . . . you and Kyle . . . "

Stan glances down at Kyle, bewilderment on his features. Kyle stares back up at him and shrugs.

"Aren't you . . . an 'item.'" It almost hurts me to spit out that word.

". . . What?" Kyle demands. "Sick, dude. Where'd you get that idea?"

"But – you were- but- " I decide to drop it.

"I guess you managed to free Christophe. And the prince of Hell," Wendy says. She smiles at me. She must remember me from the few chance encounters we had back in South Park when we were seven and eight years old. Those were not fun encounters.

"Yeah. But it's not that simple. See, Seaver and those guys are total assholes. Like, taking over the world and killing all the humans to add to hell's army kind of assholes."

She frowns. She and Stan sit down next to Kyle. Stan leans against Kyle so their shoulder touch. I can't be the only one seeing this.

"It seems like they're trying to fight just because they feel like they're supposed to," she says. "Heaven and hell are. God and Satan."

"Can we have this conversation in the morning?" Damien whines. "I'm really tired. I had to grow back my entire upper body and I went on my first real date ever."

"God," I say, "ees a fucking beetch for starting zis war."

"God started it?" She starts to analyze me with her huge blue eyes.

"'E made us 'igh 'eavenfilth first, so I would assume so."

"Huh," she says, and ponders. We all wait around for her to ponder.

"Jesus is like Damien's counterpart, right?" she says after a few seconds.

Damien makes a disgusted sound. Kyle gets a look in his eyes. Everyone else gives her 'huh' stares.

"Of course!" he says. "And if Jesus has more sway over God than Damien does over Satan-"

"Then he might be able to persuade-"

"And then God would back out-"

"And then Satan would see-"

"What ze fuck are you two talking about?"

"Jesus," Kyle says. "We'll ask him for help. He's as good as any."

"Oh,_ oui_," I say. "Let's all go and 'ave tea wiz _Jesus. Fucking. Christ_."

"I have him on speed dial." Stan starts to dig out his cell phone.

* * *

Maria crash-lands in a tiny town in Pennsylvania after about four hours of flying. Her wings fold behind her and disappear. She ends up with her head in the snow and her limps sprawled out in front of her.

She sits up and spits out a clump of ice. The cold starts to seep into her. She hugs her arms against her body. She tries to summon the magic necessary to warm her body, but she's exhausted and out of power.

She stands and trips back into the two-foot-deep snow. Her legs are wobbly and weak. It takes a minute before she has the balance needed to stand upright again.

The snow patters down on her head and shoulders. It seeps in through the collar of her jacket. The cold numbs her down to the ligaments between her bones.

She's in a yard behind a diner-esque establishment. She wills herself to move forward. Somehow she makes it to the street, then in through the front door.

The warmth inside starts to defrost her body. Everything burns, pins and needles. There aren't any other customers at the tables, but a quick glance at a nearby clock shows her it's only five in the morning. The hostess, an older woman in a bright blue apron, comes up to greet Maria.

"Hello, dearie. Breakfast?"

She shakes her head. "I don't have any money," she manages to whisper.

"Why don't you sit down anyways? You look like you're freezing."

Maria hesitates, then nods. She follows the kindly lady to a table for two in the far corner.

"I don't have any money," she repeats.

"I know," the lady says, and brings her a cup of coffee.

Maria glances down at her hands and realizes they're still stained red. A quick glance reveals her jacket's in the same condition.

"This isn't my blood," she says.

"I know." The lady sits at the table across from her. "Were you out hunting or something for food?"

With her scarred-up face and neck, her slim stature (she looks fourteen years old, tops), the lady must think she's a runaway.

"There are food kitchens around here that are better for that, sweetheart."

"I know. I. Um."

"Call me Stacey."

It doesn't fit.

"Okay." She sniffs her coffee and can't detect any poison, so she shrugs and drinks it down. It burns her tongue, but her body cries out at the warmth. Bliss floods through her. She puts her cup down and notices for the first time that her fingers are trembling.

Then Stacey brings her a plate of bacon and eggs, and she eats it so fast she almost chokes. About halfway through the meal, she starts crying. She wipes away her snot and tears and drinks more coffee in an attempt to halt the flow. It doesn't work and eventually she has to put her face in her arms.

"Sorry," she manages.

Stacey pats her on the back.

"Why are you giving me all this stuff for free?"

"Because you look like you need it." Stacey wears a sympathetic expression. "Times are hard. There's death all over the country and the government doesn't know why. But we can still be nice to each other."

Maria nods.

"Besides," she adds, "you can wash dishes for me."

Maria attempts a smile, and then Stacey runs to the kitchen to get her more coffee.

She's tired. She feels like she could sleep for a thousand years and wake up and still feel tired. She can't remember not being tired. Some part of her just wants it all to end.

She rests her cheek against the table.

Another part of her knows it's all just beginning.


	24. Chapter 24

WHAT'S THIS? LIZ IS UPDATING ON TIME?

Yes. Yes I am.

This is part two of the penultimate Big!Christophe chapter. I have actually set an update deadline for myself. Next Thursday, prepare to have your inboxes spammed with the two finale chapters, the epilogue, and the acknowledgements.

Thank you everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I forgot to reply to reviews, because I suck, but please know that I appreciate every review I receive.

This chapter was very fun to write! Please enjoy!

* * *

"Sugar We're Going Down" by _Fall Out Boy_

"Nymphetamine" by _Cradle of Filth_

"Uprising" by _Muse_ (My personal favorite song . . . I feel like it sets the mood very well).

* * *

Smoke blurs my vision. I cough, trying to clear my throat. Eleven or so years of chain-smoking haven't prepared me for the haze. My eyes sting, and I scrub at them furiously for a few seconds. The charred remains of fires keep puffing up smoke. As we walk past a clump of ashes, I see white bone and a the remnants of skull. I try not to think about it.

Stan leads our little group over the empty battlefield. The corpses and campfires stretch as far as we can see. None of us say anything. This time in the afternoon, the blood red sun only accents the crimson stains on the snow. The battlefield has been empty for maybe a day or less. My paranoia informs me something's going to jump out from nowhere and eat us all.

"He should be around here somewhere," Stan says.

And, right on cue, a figure appears out of nowhere. Actually, two figures.

One of them is a tall, skinny man with long brown hair and a halo. His face is smudged with dirt, but there's a wide-eyed, naïve look to him that instantly makes me want to pet him, like a puppy or something.

The other figure is a short, familiar British blond.

"Pip?" Damien asks in disbelief.

"Oh, come on, why is he here?" Stan groans.

Pip shrugs shyly, still clinging to Jesus' robes. "Why hello, old chaps," he starts lamely.

Damien runs forward and hugs him. We all gawk at him. Then Pip hugs him back.

"You freaking idiot," Damien mumbles.

Pip's face is half-buried by Damien's shoulder when he says, "er, do you mind letting me go? You're choking me."

Damien steps back and we all stare at each other. Then Jesus says, "It's not safe here. How about we go to my house?"

"Sure," Stan says.

We form a circle of linked arms. Then Jesus closes his eyes and mutters something. The world flashes and changes. Instead of the battlefield, we're in a rather cozy living room.

Damien sinks down into a sofa and flops his head back. "This is bad," he mumbles.

I raise my eyebrows and sit next to him. "Why?"

"I really don't like being near my celestial counterpart, okay?" He takes a deep breath. "When I first met you my first instinct was to kill you, because you were High Heavenfilth. I don't know how I managed to go all those years without killing Pip."

". . . oh."

"I'm guessing you didn't feel the same way because you'd been fighting the urge for too long. And I got over it, yeah." He grins at me. "But it's, like, ten times worse when it comes to Jesus. "

"Are you going to hurt him?" I hiss.

"Fuck, no. It just means I don't like him very much."

I nod and turn to take in everyone else. Jesus and Pip are busying themselves by getting everyone tea. Jesus Christ is making us freaking tea. I rub my temples.

The South Park boys stand awkwardly around the room, on edge, with their fists clenched and their shoulders up. I'm guessing they're feeling the same way as Damien, and they're not used to it.

"Why is Pip here?" Stan interrupts the silence.

The kettle starts to whine. Pip pours the tea into rainbow-colored mugs while Jesus talks.

"The demons were scouring the town for any High Heavenfilth, and I knew he would be caught sooner or later. I mean, they killed me, even." He frowns.

"Oh, yeah," Kyle says. "That's how you got your magical powers again, isn't it?"

We all stare blankly at him. He flushes bright red. "It's a long story," he says, "and I'm not going to tell it."

"Kay." Stan shakes his head. "Jesus?"

"So I took him back here." Jesus shrugs. "I wanted to look after all my children, especially if one of them is my little brother."

This news goes over fantastically.

"Wait, what?" Stan demands. Pip suddenly becomes more interested in his fingernails than finishing up with the tea.

"'ow exactly did you become an 'igh 'eavenfilth, Pip?" I ask after another second of awkward silence.

He swallows hard, then turns to face me, bearing eight mugs of tea on a platter.

"Why, the same way Damien and Jesus did!" he chirps as he sets our mugs in front of us. "I was born that way."

"Born zat way. Right." I rub my temples. I don't drink alcohol because I always get a horrible hangover, but I have indulged in weed a couple of times in the past, when I was with people I hoped I could trust and we were somewhere no one could track us. This seems like an excellent time to bring out a joint.

"So you're ze son of God."

"Er . . . that's right!"

"And you failed to mention zis earlier because?" I hiss out. The other South Park kids just stare at Pip with their mouths open and their tea cooling. Damien rolls his eyes, smirks, and leans back against the couch. The bastard probably already knew. Of course, it's not like he's had much of an opportunity to tell me.

"I know how much you hate God!" Pip sets the platter back down in the kitchen and doesn't face us. Jesus purses his lips like he's going to say something, but Pip continues on before anyone can interrupt him.

"La Resistance was the only time I feel like I did something important in my entire life. I remember how strong you and Gregory were during the Canadian-American war. And Gregory was one of the only kids who was ever nice to me, although it was probably because we were both High Heavenfilth, even though he had no idea. And I just didn't want to feel useless again, okay? I didn't want one of the few people with nothing against me to hate me!"

He's shaking, his shoulders trembling. Jesus puts a hand on his arm and mutters something we can't hear.

Cartman snorts.

Kyle punches him in the arm again.

"Eh!"

"Pip," Stan begins.

"Don't," Pip snaps, his eyes narrowed. "Do you know how hard it was for me to go to school with the five of you every day and fight the urge to kill you? We're sworn enemies, through and through. I was trapped and smothered in that town of South Park. Father might have thought it was a good idea for me to freaking build character or something, but I hated it, I hated everyone of you Hell-Allied bastards. And when you teased me and bullied me, I was this close, this goddamn close to breaking."

He holds up his index and thumb, close together, to illustrate. Then he turns and runs from the kitchen and through another door. We all take a second to stare after him. I don't think I've ever heard Pip talk that much, or use profanity of any kind.

"Okaaaay, then," Stan says. "So, this is a good thing, right? What does it mean about the war? I mean, what we're going to do for the war? Or whatever."

"The war." Jesus chews on his lips. "I don't know, my children," he says finally. "I have talked to my father about this. He has been unclear about many of the details, but it seems that the main angels directing and leading the army are lower-class, younger Angels. Newer ones not mentioned in the new testament or any of the sacred texts. They're young and eager to prove themselves."

"And they think starting the final battle between Heaven and Hell is a good way to do this," Stan says, rolling his eyes.

Jesus takes him way too seriously. "Yes, my son. I believe it is so. I have met with some of them, and they held me with utmost respect, but they also had a touch of arrogance about them, as if they thought they knew better than me."

"You have got to be frigging kidding me," Damien mutters.

"Pip and I have been out onto the battlefield and we have tried to defend as many people as we can from the scourge of the hellspawn armies. I must say that there seem to be many of them, and if they are not stopped, then they will probably kill many innocents here on Earth."

"But the angels are assholes!" Stan growls. "We don't want to side with them, either. I think they'd just as soon kill us."

Jesus shrugs. "My father asked me explicitly not to get involved, although I do not believe he said the same thing to Pip-"

"Wait, wait," Kyle says. "You're saying Pip, the whiny French kid who's been in the same class as me since third grade, is the messiah. The fucking messiah. No. No. What the hell."

"'es British," I snap. "I'm not associated wiz 'im."

"The antichrist came to my ninth birthday party, this kind of thing just happens to us," Cartman says. "I don't see why you're so – oh, eh! This is some big time for your religion, isn't? Fucking ki-"

Kyle punches him again before he can finish saying the word. They start swearing at each other, loudly. Stan yells, "Guys, guys, GUYS!" Until both of them shut up.

"Jesus, any ideas on what we should do? You can't help us out at all?" Stan pleads.

He shakes his head. "I am sorry, my children, but I do not wish to concur my father's wrath. I could try talking to him for you, to get him to stop the lesser angels from continuing on with this war, but I have already tried and he has not done anything."

"Why?" Kenny, who has been silent for most of the conversation, demands. "Why the hell is He doing all this?"

"Because he's a dick?" Damien volunteers.

"Because 'e ees a cocksucking faggot," I interject.

The four of them give us their okay-stop-being-wise-asses looks, even though we were both being serious.

"Any advice?" Stan slumps back against the wall, still holding his mug of tea between his gloved hands.

"If you don't want to join either side," Jesus says, shrugging then smiling, "then make a third side."

He heads into the kitchen to refill his cup of tea.

"You don't think he means-" Kyle starts in a low voice.

"_Oui_, he does." I clench my fists, imagining a shovel in my hands. "_Viva La Resistance_."

* * *

The plan is so simple it makes me want to laugh. We have it half-worked out by the time Jesus magicks us back to the battlefield. My blood simmers a bit at the thought of Jesus Christ backing down on an opportunity to stop a war, regardless of what his father thinks. Pip trails along after us, not saying anything, not contributing to our battle plans.

We're La Resistance again. I know this deep down, and it makes my fists clench with adrenaline and my lips curl into a sarcastic smile.

Damien doesn't seem to understand why the rest of us are so excited about 'La Resistance.' He doesn't get what it means to us to have been a part of something so huge. Back when I was eight years old, I was suicidal, schizophrenic, and borderline-sociopathic. Yes, La Resistance got me killed. But it brought me out of a dark time in my life, and into a more grayish-haze. And even though I have no idea what color my life is right now, and even though I know this particular rebellion will be bloodier and more tragic than the last one, I still can't forget. It's what it feels like to fight for a cause; what if feels like to have other people around you who care about the same things you do; what it feels like to triumph over violence and chaos.

There are some of us missing. Butters was part of the tiny army last time, although I can barely remember the boy except for his stutter and his crop of blond hair, I still think of what happened to him. Yardale School tortured the High Hellspawns' location out of him, and then they disposed of him when they had no more use for him.

Gregory was a lie last time. He only participated because of some grander scheme to test my sanity. Okay, that's the same reason I participated, too, but at least I freaking died for the cause.

"No way, dude," Kyle says. "Craig'll never go for it."

"You know how sick he is of being in Hell," Stan argues. "He might be willing to do anything."

"Seriouslah, you guys," Cartman says. "We just have to make him. We've got all these cool powers now-"

"Shut up, Cartman!" Kyle yelps.

"Don't tell me to shut up, you dumb Jew!"

"Don't call me a dumb Jew, you asshole-"

"Guys, stop it," Stan says wearily.

Kyle takes a deep breath and turns back to me. "'Tophe? Do you think they'll fall for it?"

I blink; I wasn't really paying attention. "Uhmmm. Yes. Angels and demons are almost as fucking stupid as humans."

"Uh. Thanks." He turns back to Cartman. "See? I don't think we'll need violence-"

By the time we get back to the hotel in Hell, we've worked out the rough shape of the plan, although Stan and Kyle are still arguing over Craig's position in the whole thing even as we take the elevator up to his room.

It's early morning, and he's still curled up in the blankets, shirtless, mouth open and half-drooling. Stan wakes him up by throwing a pillow at him.

"What the fuck do you assholes want?" he growls, sitting up and glaring at us. His gaze focuses on Pip. "Why the fuck is he here?"

"Do you want the war to stop so you can get out of Hell?" Stan asks.

"I want to get out of hell," he says. "Don't care one way or another whether the war stops. Why?"

"We've got a plan," Kyle says. "And you and your gang have a pretty decent part in it, but we're not sure you'll like it. We know you're pretty much the leader over all the survivors from South Park, so we were wondering-"

Craig listens to our plan.

"No," he says. "That's fucking stupid."

"Come on," Kyle pleads. "Do you want to be stuck in Hell for the rest of your life?"

"If I die I'll go down to Hell anyways," he says, flopping back on his bed.

"Can we make him?" Cartman asks.

"No. That's immoral." Kyle grits his teeth before the two of them can get into an argument.

"Were you part of La Resistance last time?" Damien asks.

Craig nods, keeping his glare up. "But we were never in any real danger."

"You won't be this time," Damien says, shrugging. "The detonators can be activated from several hundred feet away, and we'll be the ones risking our necks, anyway."

Craig lets out a groan and climbs out of bed. "Fine. I'll go tell the others we're listening to your retarded plans again."

* * *

Maria wakes up in a cloud of fluffy blankets. She pulls the comforter up around her neck, sighing. Her skin feels clean and her hair smells like the coconut shampoo Stacey lent to her. She glances at the alarm clock to her right. It's five-thirty in the morning. On the dot.

She frowns. When she was a little kid, she used to sleep in until noon on the weekends when she didn't have school. Now that she thinks of it, she can't remember the last time she slept past five-thirty in the morning.

She sits up. Her nose itches. The room smells weird, but the dream-haze pouring over her keeps her from placing it.

She's in Stacey's guest bedroom. Stacey lives with her husband and her three daughters, who are aged from fourteen years to twenty-one months. They're all freaking adorable. She met them yesterday after washing a million and one dishes.

Her stomach rumbles. Eagerly looking forward to Stacey's cooking, she jumps out of bed and pulls on her boots. Stacey gave her a fresh change of clothes (as per usual, way too big for her) and a patched-up jacket yesterday. By habit, she zips up the jacket as she makes her way to the door.

She pulls the door open and freezes.

The coppery stench of demon fills her senses.

Her first instinct is to run. She bites down her fear and listens hard. In the distance, she hears shrieks, pleading.

Time to fight.

Her fingers curl into claws.

She bounds down the stairs and bursts out of the house. Demons fill the streets. Some of the humanoid, most of them a melting pot of mutated, black, oily creatures. They lunge for the humans and pin them down, ripping them apart. Screaming humans race through the streets, the majority in their pajamas and bath robes. The reek of fresh blood fills the air as the demons feast to their fill.

"Maria!" Stacey screams from behind her. Maria whirls to see the older lady struggling with a cat demon. It has her pinned against the wall and is clawing at her flesh. "Maria, run!"

Maria screams and lunges for Stacey, but before she can reach her the demon yanks off her head. Blood spurts, coating Maria's face and clothing. She stops, staring at the demon, staring at Stacey's corpse.

Stacey was the first stranger who was nice to her in the past eleven years.

Water rushes up around her. The deluge wrecks over the demon in front of her. It blows away, shrieking as the water washes it down the street. Another demon behind her lunges at her back, but she senses it and spins before it can connect with her. Her water traps it high in the air. The demon wails as the water begins to boil and burn it alive.

She sees another demon chasing after Stacey's toddler. She sprints towards the girl, letting the magic fuel her speed. She flings out a spiral of water, but she's too late again. The demon bites the baby girl in half.

She's screaming, now, a high-pitched keening emitting from her throat. She throws magic and lets the water swirl around her. The demons' screams echo in her ears. The human screams are far more prominent. She fights and fights and fights, and in the end she doesn't manage to rescue a single one of them.

She ends up slumped over, her knees on the pavement and her head pressed against the icy ground. Her body is coated with black demon gunk and blood. Her limbs shake. Adrenaline pours through her. Corpses litter the ground around her.

The sun is just starting to rise.

She just witnessed a massacre and she hasn't even had breakfast yet.

The few remaining demons slink away from her, doubtlessly to report of her whereabouts so other demons can come after her.

The demons only attacked this town because she was here. They must have smelled the scent of High Heavenfilth and come looking for a tasty snack.

All her fault.

This is all her fault.

She was so stupid to think she could relax and pretend to be ordinary.

She clenches her fists and sucks in a deep breath.

They have to end this fucking war.

* * *

This is the letter we pin onto an angel messenger and a demon messenger after magicking them into believing they received it from their respective rulers:

_Dear Lucifer/God:_

_ I formally request your presence at the White House of a America at five in the evening this coming Sunday. Come in peace. We have much to discuss about the war. It has gone on for too long, and while I do not wish to surrender, I believe we could come to a peaceful agreement._

_ Sincerely, Lucifer/God:_

It's so full of bullshit I can't help but gawk at Damien after he writes it. He insists that his father and God send messages like that to each other all the time. We seal it up and do our best replicas of their respective seals. Damien has his father's memorized and can create the stamp from memory. Pip has only seen God's once or twice, and so his end result looks a little sloppy. We only hope Satan's too much of a moron to figure it out, or that he'll come anyway.

"What ees eet like 'aving God as your fazzer?" I ask Pip conversationally as we stick the letters into the messengers' bags. They stare at us in a daze, still under Damien's hypnotizing spell.

He pauses and thinks for a few seconds about the question.

"Very lonely."

That part of the plan in motion, we start to examine the blueprints for the best possible point of invasion. The plan still seems like it'll get us killed, but at least, that's why Craig and the rest of the South Park survivors are out there. To make sure we don't get killed. Or something.

"We should be really flashy and badass," Stan suggests. "Like helicopters or something."

"No, dude, that's kind of gay," Kyle objects.

"Helicopters aren't gay!" Stan says with a gasp. They erupt into a furious battle over which mode of transportation is the coolest. I roll my eyes. As much as I would love to listen to debate over this, I have to get some of our . . . 'supplies.'

We've already made arrangements with the dealer. Even though when the world is chaos and everyone wants the same weapons, if you flash enough money at someone, they'll hand over pretty much anything you want. Damien insists on escorting me around on the surface, which I don't object to, mostly because I can't get in and out of Hell on my own.

In retrospect we're not any better than Stan and Kyle, because in less than five minutes after arriving on the surface, we're arguing over whether or not sporks are redundant. We're the only source of life in the wrecked and rotting remains of Denver. Rubble spills out into the streets. Trash lines the sidewalks. Dogs with no more flesh than a skeleton pick at the rotting remains of their masters' corpses.

Eventually we fall silent and take in the decay. It feels disrespectful, almost, to shout and glare and bicker when so many are dead. Judging by the remains, they've been gone for a while. The wreckage still makes me shiver. I instinctively reach out and grab Damien's hand, pulling him close to me in case something jumps out and eats him. He looks surprised for a second before grinning and twisting his fingers with mine. I look straight ahead and pretend it doesn't make me feel better, to know he's next to be and as safe as I can make him.

I don't know who destroyed the city of Denver. It could have been the Demons, or the Angels if it was Hell-Allied like South Park. And then I realize it doesn't matter, because the people are dead regardless of who killed them.

They don't need the antichrist to bring about the apocalypse. Frankly, the angels and demons are doing fine on their own.

There are still some survivors lurking in the shadows. Children with hollow eyes and cheeks run up to us with their hands out, begging for food. Since we don't have any, we have to shake our heads. They sigh and scurry off, leaving us alone again. The adults lurk in the shadows, watching our every move. Once a crazy man staggers up to us and starts ranting about government conspiracies.

We meet our supplier in an alleyway in the center of town. He's waiting next to the idling truck. A quick peek into the back reveals he's delivered what we asked for. I don't know how he managed to get a hold of that much C4, and I don't really want to know, but we give him the money in three suitcases of hundred-dollar bills. He grins and scurries off, thanking us with a tip of his head. He can probably spend it in the parts of the world that aren't desolate and abandoned, although I'm not even sure if there's any like that left.

"Can you drive?" Damien asks, staring up at the truck.

"Uhmmm. No."

"Huh." He scratches his head. "This might pose a problem."

"I'm sure we can figure eet out," I say. "You know, learning to drive een an eighteen-wheeler full of explosives. Zat's always a good idea."

He elbows me. We continue to stare up at the truck and consider our problem.

"I guess we can just open the gateway to Hell from here," he says. "Even though it'll attract a lot of attention and rip the city in half and possibly kill some of the people that are around here. Uhm."

"We've got magic," I say. "We can, like, just float eet een ze air to get eet out of town. Or somezing."

"It's gotta weigh like a million tons," Damien says. "When you say 'we' you're really saying I've gotta do it since you have the magical skills of, like, a chipmunk or something. And I don't know if I can float that much weight, period, let alone for like half an hour."

"Wimp," I say. He rolls his eyes.

We keeps looking up at the truck.

"Zis ees a really bad plan," I say, and I'm not just talking about the truck full of C4.

"It'll work," he says. "I think it'll work."

I shake my head. "We are all going to end up dead."

He doesn't say anything.

"And," I say, "when creatures like us die, we don't get an afterlife. We simply blink out of existence."

He shrugs.

"Don't act so fucking self-destructive," I hiss. "When I met you, you were ze kind of person who would rip an angel to shreds to keep 'imself from just '_aving to move_."

"I've changed," he says, shrugging again.

"You've changed into ze kind of person who's going to get zemselves killed."

"So have you."

I shake my head, throat dry.

"What are you saying?" He looks down at me and I refuse to meet his gaze. "Are you saying you're the one who's scared? Christophe Simon? The tough bastard who does whatever he wants and never takes the angels' bullshit?"

"I'm always scared," I say. "I'm always scared, and you're ze only one who knows zat."

He reaches out and wraps his arms around him, hugging me against him.

"When we succeed," he says. "You won't have to be afraid anymore. You can live the rest of your life as a mercenary or whatever crazy-ass thing you want to do. And I'll – and I'll be there to make sure you don't fuck up too badly."

I bury my face into his shoulder and breath in his scent. He still smells terrible to me, but there's something comforting about a reek this familiar. My celestial instincts inform me he smells like evil and death, but I ignore those, since I've always been pretty good at ignoring them.

"I still don't zink we are going to get out of zis alive," I say, hating myself for how true it is.

He reaches up and traces the light scar around my neck from where the collar rubbed at my skin for months. It'll fade in a few years, I think, the same way the one from when I was a child faded. The leather cord Maria gave me rests against my collarbone.

"We got those fucking collars off," he says, "but they've still a hold on you. They've had you in their clutches for the past eleven years."

I don't say anything, swallowing hard.

"I swore to you." He meets my gaze, his red-tinged eyes steady. "I said I'd get their collars off. And I'm going to keep that promise."

Something about the way he says it makes me want to fall in his arms and let him be my knight and shining armor. I'm no princess and I'm not going to act like one, but it's nice to know I could if I wanted to.

"I'm going to make zose bastards pay for 'urting you," I say, "so I get to go at zem first."

He grins and tickles me, which makes me start to laugh. Then he kisses me enough to make my lips burn.

* * *

There's still the issue of the truck. The truck neither of us know how to drive.

"We could practice on another car," Damien suggests.

"What ozzer car?" I scoff. "Zey've all been looted or zey're out of gasoline. I'm surprised ze supplier even left us wiz a 'alf-full tank."

"We could pay someone to drive it for us," he says, listing out ideas.

"I don't understand," I growl. "You can open a gateway to 'ell but you cannot fucking drive a car. 'Ow ze 'ell does zat work?"

"I never went through driver's ed, okay?" he says defensively. "I was horrible deprived as a child-" He stops and cocks his ear.

"What?" I demand, tensing.

He wrinkles his nose, and sniffs. I copy him. I have a decent sense of smell, but even so I can only make out the reek of trash and decay.

His eyes open wide just as I smell it.

Celestial magic.

It's growing closer by the second, the sickly, permeating of rotten oranges penetrating the human scents around me.

"Fuck!" He grabs my wrist and starts to drag me through the alleyway. I shake myself free and race after him. We're almost at the mouth when the figure plummets out of the sky and crash-lands in front of us. Feathers brush against my face. The wings fade away and the figure staggers to her feet, leaning against the alley wall.

"Maria?" I say in disbelief.

Maria leaps into my arms, hugging me around the waist and squeezing me hard enough to make me gasp for air. My mind can't comprehend this. I numbly hug her back.

"Are you alone?" Damien hisses, searching the sky.

She nods, still panting for air. Her grip stays locked around me. She burrows her head into my jacket and I realize she's sobbing.

Maria doesn't sob. She cries, sometimes, but she doesn't let herself break down.

"What's ze matter? Are you 'urt? Are you injured? What's wrong?" I pat her on the back. The lack of air eventually forces me to wriggle free. She replaces her arms around me, lighter this time. She still doesn't say anything. I sag against the wall and slide against the bricks until my butt hits the grimy pavement. She collapses into me. Damien stands over us, his eyebrows up and his eyes narrowed, wary and tense.

"Are you injured?" I ask again. She shakes her head.

"'ow ze fuck are you 'ere?"

"Christophe. Just shut up for a second. Freaking _boy_." Her words are clogged and strained. And so I shut up and pat her on the head while she leans against me and cries.

After about five minutes she releases me and sits next to me. My jacket is covered with mucus and salty tears, but I ignore it and stare at her. She wipes her face with the sleeve of her own grimy jacket.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "I've had a really long three days."

"You escaped," I say.

"Yeah," she says, jutting her chin in the air. "Yeah, I did."

"You escaped."

My mind is frozen. Damien sits down on Maria's other side. She grabs him and hugs him too. He blinks and hugs her back. A few seconds later she pulls away and takes a deep breath.

"Sorry. It's just. It's just. I thought you guys were dead. We assumed. We thought. The angels would never let you get out alive." Her expression crumples. "Oh, god, they probably told Chase I'm dead, too."

I think she's going to start crying again, but instead she grits her teeth and keeps talking.

"So yeah. I escaped. Chase was going to come, too, but he couldn't . . . he was injured, he couldn't make it out of there. It was just me." She shakes her head. "We saw all the confusion and took our chance. I headed out to Colorado because I heard it was Hell-allied and I was hoping there wouldn't be any angels or anything. I was figuring at that point that the hellspawn might be more reasonable than the angels. Like, they might take me as a defector or something. I dunno. And I was circling, looking for someone to trust, and then smelled your celestial energy and I knew, just knew it was you. From, like, twenty miles away. Christophe, you're doing a terrible job of repressing it, how the hell did you manage to stay free for like nine years?"

"Luck," I say, mouth moving on automatic. "I zought you were too afraid to escape. I zought zat was why you deedn't escape before. When we were children." I clench my fists and think back to that time, when I was begging them and pleading and they still all refused to come with me.

"I'm sorry," she says, and looks at the ground. "I . . . I know what you sacrificed. And I was afraid. But I decided to stop being afraid. Chase was going to come, too. We were both going to come and escape. We tried, I swear. And I think Gregory would have, too, but he just hasn't gotten over how scared out of his mind he is." She looks up at me. "We all want to be free, Christophe."

Something inside me releases, tension I've been holding onto all these years. I stare straight ahead at the opposite alley wall. And for the first time I don't feel quite so lonely.

"So." She takes in a deep breath. "What now?"

* * *

In the end, Damien and Maria have to struggle to levitate the truck. Once it's in the air, they begin to push it on, their magic rolling together and shifting under the huge weight. Sweat rolls down their faces. I do the talking, filling Maria in on our plan.

"Ze whole point of La Resistance ees to stop ze war. Eef you don't like eizer side, zen make a zird side." Saying it out loud makes it sound arrogant and presumptuous, but we've already made our plans, and so what if we're being arrogant?

"Ze problem," I say, "wiz boz sides ees zat zey bozth zink zey are een ze right and zey bozth are willing to kill ze ozzer side for not recognizing 'ow right zey are. Now, we don't particularly care who ees een ze right. We only know zat bozth sides are willing to kill a lot of innocent people for their goals. We're going to stop zem before zey can fight zose wars."

"They've already killed a lot of people," Maria says, panting under exertion. She keeps her hands raised, pointing at the truck. It moves along at a slow pace through the streets, six inches above the ground. The survivors openly gawk at us as we shift through the city. This could be solved a lot easier if any of us knew how to drive.

"I know. We're going to stop zem from killing any more." I speak with a lot more confidence than I actually feel. "We're tricking ze two groups into meeting for peace negotiations zis Sunday."

"Sure. Suuuuuure, Christophe, that'll work."

A little girl runs up to poke the floating truck. She giggles and runs away. Then the other children swarm around the truck, poking at it. It doesn't halt our process, so we don't do anything to stop them. Little kids are weird.

"Zat's not where it ends – will you listen to me? We know zey won't listen to each ozzer. Probably wizzin five minutes zey'll end up blowing each ozzer up. So we're going to invade ze negotiations and force zem to sign a magically binding treaty Damien ees putting togezer wiz Pip's 'elp." The treaty-spell needs both celestial and demonic magic to make it legitamite. "We're 'oping we're not going to 'ave to force zem, zat zey'll just sign it because zere ees enough een ze treaty for bozth sides to feel like zey've won somezing from ze whole mess."

"What if God's not there?" Her voice sounds strained. Her muscles bulge as if she's physically holding up the truck. I don't know how magic works. At all. "Hate to break it to you, but I don't think he's actually running the whole thing. It's that council of angels. They're such dicks."

"As long as all ze angels who are een charge of zis war sign eet, eet should be fine. Right, Damien?" I look at him for confirmation. He nods, even as his gaze stays focused on the truck.

"What if they've got a ton of manpower there and they just, like, blow you up or something?"

"Zat's why we need ze rest of ze survivors from Souz Park." I watch the truck turn around the street corner. We're almost outside the city limits, almost to the point where we can get down to Hell safely without fear of killing any bystanders. "Zey will be around ze city outside. Since we are fairly certain zat boz sides will bring lots and lots of soldiers, we will plant bombs around ze area and ze Souz Park survivors will be ready to set zem off. Stan and Kyle are setting zeir coordination up right as we speak."

"And Stan and Kyle are again-?"

"Some of the High Hellspawn. Zey are, like, Damien's adopted brozzers or somezing, right?"

"Something like that," Damien mutters.

"_Oui_. Zey're setting eet up, and eef we zink ze angels or demons . . . probably ze angels . . . are starting to zreaten us, zen we'll have ze survivors set off a few bombs as warning. Eef zey continue to zreaten us, zen we'll 'ave zem set off more bombs. We'll 'ave ze transmitters zet up and everyzing. I don't zink ze bombs will 'urt ze soldiers too much . . . zey're mostly low 'ellspaw and low 'eavenfilth, so zey should be able to get out of the way . . . but eet will disrupt their ranks and should get zem to panic. Lifting zat looks really 'ard."

"You bastard . . ." Maria says, gasping under the weight of the truck.

She and Damien let gently fall to the ground at the side of the highway. They bend over, gasping for breath, sweaty and gross even in the freezing cold January air. I roll my eyes and wait for them to recover.

"We're probably going to get recaptured again, aren't we?" Maria mutters. "Like that time before. Our first escape from Yardale, back when we were kids."

"_Oui_." I nod. "Zey'll capture you. Zey will kill me."

"I'm not going to let them capture me," she says. "I'll die fighting. It's better that way."

"I-"

"And we've got to get Chase out," she insists. "I bet they'll take him and Gregory to the negotiations, to fight for them or something. We've got to get him out. I hate myself for leaving him behind. He's my best friend. I mean, you and Gregory and him are like my family, but he's my best friend."

"Oh," I say, and think for a second. "We're like your family?"

She punches me in the shoulder. "Even though we're going to die," she says, "I'm glad we're both free again."

* * *

The helicopter roars around us. In the end, Stan won out on how to make our entrance as flashy as possible. My heart pounds rapidly in my chest. I can't believe how stupid I'm being. This is stupid. This is stupid. I should run. Run and get out of here right now. Go hide in a cave in Canada. This is stupid. This is stupid-

Damien shifts next to me, his shoulder brushing mine, and I remember why I can't run anymore. There's nowhere left to go. I could maybe hide myself forever, but I can't hide all the people I care about, especially not when some of them are still trapped and wearing collars. And, of course, I'm talking about Chase, because I still fucking hate Gregory.

We're sitting on a bench, our backs to the metal wall. We all decided it would be useless to take weapons, and my fingers itch for something to hold onto. I should have grabbed a replacement shovel, but it wouldn't be the same. It would be like replacing Damien. And yes, I _did_ just liken a piece of gardening equipment to my love interest. Fuck off.

We're wearing fatigues and combat boots. The colors are neutral enough for us to keep from siding with any particular army. Maria, Pip and I, the three Heavenfilth, are outmatched by Damien, Kenny, Kyle, Stan and Cartman, but the eight of us are on the same side here. Cartman whined for an hour before we left, demanding to be left behind, but Kyle refused to let "the fatass" chicken out of this one.

The South Park survivors are already in place, perched on top of buildings and in empty alleyways. There are almost a hundred of them. Among them are teenagers and adults alike. We didn't let any children younger than thirteen or so head out into the fray. We've got enough horribly scarred children, thank you very much. Stan's parents patted on him on the back before they got onto the plane yesterday, telling him to be safe. Stan kissed his girlfriend goodbye and Kyle hugged his mother and father and told them to be careful, even though the South Park survivors should be avoiding most of the fray. Kenny looked lonely for a few seconds while the other three said goodbye to their families, but he reassured everyone that he'd already seen his parents, who were down in Hell.

"You can see anyone who's dead down in Hell," he says. "S'long as they weren't anything about Low Hellspawn and Heavenfilth. You got anyone you want to say hi to?"

"No," I said, before he could elaborate further.

Then I asked him if he was sad his parents had died.

"Of course," he said, shrugging, even though his smile looked forced. "But I already did all my crying for them."

The churning of the engine drowns out any possibility of conversation. We communicate with worried glances, squeezed hands, and nods of reassurance. Stan has his arm around Kyle, and the two of them are leaning into each other. We're only a few miles from the White House at this point, flying thousands of feet above the ground. The pilot is one of the survivors from South Park, a man I don't even recognize, a man none of us recognize: he's just someone who's willing to help.

"SO," Damien shouts into my ear. "THIS IS IT."

"ZIS EES EET," I shout back, and we're quiet the rest of the way.

We know when we arrive because the helicopter stops moving forward and instead hovers in the air. I peek out the open door. Air rushes past, tangling my hair. Thousands of feet below, I see buildings and grass and tiny little highways. This is it. This is it. _This is stupid._

"LET'S DO THIS," Damien shouts, looking way more confident than he probably feels. He grabs my hands and jumps out of the helicopter, dragging me after him.

We free-fall for a few seconds, the air screaming past us. The last time I did this, it was with Gregory, and he caught me and held me with a smirk of control on his lips. Now I reach out to Damien and latch onto him because I want to, because it's part of the plan, not because I'm being forced and manipulated into submitting.

Black wings shoot out from his back and catch at the air. The recoil almost makes me throw up. I throw my arms around his neck to keep from spiraling through the sky, and his hands grab handfuls of my shirt. Freezing wind whips at our arms. My heart does gymnastics in my chest. Loose feathers brush at my face before he starts to flap. Every heavy thrust of his wings sends us lurching through the sky. It's not graceful. Humans aren't meant to fly, no matter what magic might do to our bodies. But it's certainly fucking awesome.

Above us, the others are jumping out and spreading their own wings. Stan, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman are a little unsteady, even though they practiced for several hours a day in the last week. I notice with some amusement that Cartman's wings are a lot larger than the other South Park kids. They each have black wings, while Maria and Pip's wings are both whitish. Real subtle, magical powers. Not symbolic at all. Right.

I wonder if my wings would be white, too, if I knew how to fly, or if they would be gray and warped.

It doesn't matter, I can't fly. I keep my arms around Damien as we swoop closer to the ground. It's a few minutes after five in the afternoon. I wonder if the angels and demons are already bitching each other out. The wind slaps at my cheeks and stings them. I close my eyes to keep them from drying out. We plummet downwards at a controlled rate, but it still makes my stomach drop and adrenaline pour through my veins. Or maybe it's just the fact that I know the rest of my life is going to be decided within the next fifteen minutes or so.

Oh god, I could die here, I could fucking die here-

I clamp down on the panic inside of me.

This is something worth dying for, isn't it?

_There's nothing worth dying for, _my inner cynic points out.

Damien's arms are warm around me against the chill of the wind. I open my eyes again and fight to keep the panic down as we near the dirty gray building below us.

_This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid_- my inner cynic chants.

_This is the resistance,_ another side of me says, the side I've just lately started listening to. It's the side of me that drove me to break into Damien's apartment and play the hero that day all those months ago. And yeah, sure, that side got me into a world of trouble, but if I don't listen to it I'll just be listening to my inner cynic all the time and on the run forever.

I'm sick of running. I'm sick of being afraid.

It's time to fight.

We touch down on the roof of the white house. The roof of the freaking white house. We chose this location because we thought it would be a universal one, but it still sends shivers up my spine. The grass is dead under layers of snow. The fountains have died. Black char mars the white-gray walls, and bits of the building have been torn out. I hope they managed to evacuate the president before the hellspawn attacked who-knows-how-long ago. I suddenly realize why there were so many people at the ball drop, even when the rest of the nation was going to hell. People needed something to cling to. They still need some sort of hope to cling to.

The reek of Hell and Heaven bleeds through the sandstone under our feet. I step out of Damien's hold and crouch down to the roof. I press my ear against the stone, willing my magic to work for me for once, damn it. I don't know if I should be disgruntled or happy when it works, but I still haven't thought much about the moral ramifications, so I decide to go with it and listen to the shouting below me. Even though I can't make out the words through the stone, I can hear the tone. Everyone sounds pissed.

"Ready?" Damien says.

"Yes," Maria breathes out. We all nod in agreement.

Hopefully the survivors are in place. A quick glance reveals the armies of both sides hidden in the wreckage around the White House, their guns pointed on each other, all of them trying to be as sneaky as possible and miserably failing. They didn't notice us, too focused on their own enemies to pay attention to the random teenagers flying out of the sky. They aren't shooting each other yet, but I have a feeling they'll start as soon as the negotiations get any worse.

"Okay." Damien sucks in air, grins nervously at me, then jumps.

He lands back on the roof in a crouch. Magic explodes out from him. It pours over the rest of us, stunning our senses and leaving us breathless. The stone begins to crumble. A six-foot-radius circle groans as cracks form around it. Damien dances out of the circle of stone just before it collapses to the floor below us.

It hits with a solid thump. We all wince. The shout and burble of voices below us rises in volume.

Damien jumps down and lands on the rubble below us. I follow after him. It's a long drop, but his magic cushions both of us and I land as lightly as a cat. The rest of La Resistance trail after us until we're standing in a circle, facing the angels and demons around us.

The angels are grouped on one side of the room, the demons on another, all of them glaring at us. The barrage of magic makes my insides curl. Satan stands at the head of his pack of demons. Some of the demons are humanoid . . . the rest are melted into bizarre animal-esque shapes with long, lethal teeth. The angels stand with their chests puffed out and their eyes lidded in pure arrogance. I recognize Esalen, the purple-eyed female-looking angel, and the other angels on the council.

"Hi," Damien says. "We're La Resistance."

They all watch us, waiting for our next move. Esalen is glaring at me. Gregory and Chase flank her, and they stand close enough to each other for their arms to brush. Gregory's eyes narrow at me. Maria and Chase stare at each other.

"We're against this war," Damien continues. "We're High Hellspawn and High Heavenfilth, all of us, and you expect us to fight your battles for you. Well, we're not going to."

Pip takes another step to stand higher on the pile of rubble underneath our feet. I feel him relax his shields. Suddenly, the full wave of his magic hits me. I gasp. La Resistance gasps. The angels and demons gasp. He stands there, a being made of celestial magic, and tilts his chin up.

His voice starts off trembly, but goes stronger as he speaks.

"We're here today to stop you. We will no longer give into your senseless fighting and killing. We have a peace treaty for the leaders of both sides to sign, and once signed it will magically bind both of you into obeying it. We have copies of the treaty if you wish to read it before signing it."

He gives a lazy flick of his fingers, and two long sheaths of paper appear out of nowhere. One floats through the air over to Satan, and the other lands into Esalen's grasp.

"Read it as many times as you want," Damien says. "But we're not leaving until you sign."

Bullshit, of course. We're leaving as soon as they threaten us. (They don't have to know that).

Esalen's gaze skims over the paper in her hands. The other angels mutter amongst themselves. Satan wears an incredibly confused expression, as if he can't imagine his son ever daring to have the balls to stand up to him. Seaver, standing at Satan's side, looks incredibly unhappy.

"We refuse." Esalen's voice cuts through the icy quiet.

Damien glares at her. "You haven't even read the damn treaty yet. And, as I said before, we don't care if you refuse. You're going to sign it anyway. The damage has gone on long enough. You're supposed to be looking after the humans, not getting them killed in the crossfire."

"They are casualties of war!" she cries. Damien scoffs.

"They're victims of your battles," he says. "And, Da- Satan, you're not much better. The denizens of Hell are being slaughtered by the angels, killed in such a way that their afterlife ends. The war will only end in a pyrrhic victory. We need to stop this now."

Esalen sighs. "My apologies, Lucifer," she spits out. "A certain Heavenfilth of ours has no doubt put these . . . _children_ up to this. We will eliminate him, and then we can go about conducting our business like mature adults."

"Oh,_ oui_," I say. "Because 'acking each ozzers 'eads off ees ze mature way to go about solving your problems."

She glowers at me. I smirk back at her.

"Angels," she says to the crowd around her. "Please have them detained."

The angels start to stalk forward. Gregory and Chase hang back.

Damien and Pip thrust out their arms. Shields bloom up around us. The angels start throwing magic at it.

"Hey, wait!" Satan cries. "Five of those are mine! Demons, get the angels!"

The demons start to swarm towards the angels.

Then more angels burst into the room. Hundreds of them, low Heavenfilth soldiers among them. Satan cries out as they quickly overwhelm the demons, slaughtering them where they stand.

"Fall back!" Satan yells. The earth groans and splits open. I see Satan jump down into it. All is chaos around us as the demons flee after him. The screams and battle cries make the whole room jumbled and confused. In a few seconds, the crack closes up.

Um. We weren't expecting that to happen. The angels start to circle around us again, rows and rows of grim, androgynous warriors.

"Now would be a good time for the bombs," Stan says, his voice steady.

Damien nods and snaps his fingers. It should send a magical link to Craig, who would then use his transmitters to inform the rest of La Resistance to detonate the C4. Instead, Low Heavenfilth soldiers start to drag struggling figures into the room.

"Esalen, miss!" One of the Low Heavenfilth soldiers cries. The angels pause their attacks on our shields and turn to look at him. A steady stream of Low Heavenfilth soldiers follow after him, each carrying struggling figures.

"We found these hell-allied humans with detonators, miss," the Low Heavenfilth deposits Craig on the floor and plants a boot on his back to keep him from squirming away. "We think they were- Oh." He notices us standing in our little circle of protection.

Kyle lets out a strangled cry and starts to run. Kenny grabs him around the waist before he can breach our protective shields. Stan gives a little whimper as Wendy is dragged in after Craig. Several other teenagers and adults are pulled into the room.

"We killed the rest, miss. These were the leaders."

Stan and Kyle's parents are not among the struggling figures. Maybe they got away. Maybe.

"What should we do with them?"

"Don't hurt them!"

Stan jumps through our protective shield, shattering it. It turns to glass, raining down around our heads and feet, the shards scraping our cheeks and exposed skin.

He starts to struggle through the crowd for Wendy, but the angels have him in a heartbeat. They're on us, all of us, using their magic to bind our magic inside of us, ignoring our blows.

I see Pip fight his way free, but then he's bashed over the head, and he falls to the floor, dazed.

Maria screams as her hands are wrenched behind her back and handcuffs locked over her wrists.

Next to me, Damien breathes out fire and sends the earth to rumbling. He turns to send a blow to a rushing angel, and then someone cracks an steel-tipped boot into his back, smashing a bone in his spine. He stumbles and his knees give way. Temporarily paralyzed. It'll take him a minute or two to heal from that.

I give a shout and reach out for him. Then Esalen herself is on me. She grabs me by the throat and shoves me against the wall. I choke, gasping, struggling for air. Her fingernails dig into my neck and draw blood. Everyone's screaming, shrieking as they're restrained and handcuffed with magical bindings forced upon them.

"You little bastard," she hisses to me. "I see why your parents sold you to us all those years ago. You're like a fucking cockroach. You never cease to piss us off and _you never. Fucking. Die_."

Her other hand yanks on my hair and she uses it to slam my head back into the wall. Nausea and agony swamps through me. The whole world looks like it's vibrating around me. She knocks my head into the wall half a dozen times, then drops me to the floor. I feel the battle magic start to buzz within me, but she grabs my cheek. A binding spell smothers every inch of power within me, until I'm left a weak, defenseless human.

No. Not defenseless. Never defenseless.

I kick out and manage to land a blow on her shin. She jerks back, face contorting. I'm up in an instant, tasting blood, burning with fury. I get one punch in her face. Months of training and years of battle fuel me. I duck under her next punch, pull back to throw one in her face again and-

Magical restraints form around my hands. A length of metal spews out from the wall and wraps around my neck, jerking me back. I struggle to breath, sucking in air and gasping. She regards me with contempt for a few seconds before kicking me between the legs. Pain explodes through me yet again, and it's all I can do to stay on my feet.

The others of La Resistance are also bound against the wall. Damien's the only one still fighting, writhing and swirling under the mass of soldiers. Then one of him tackles him, toppling him over. Another brings a machete up over his neck.

I close my eyes. I know he'll heal and be perfectly fine within the hour, but it still cuts somewhere deep inside me when I hear the _thunk!_

They burn his head right then and there, then kick his corpse over to the rest of us. I lick my lips. He's healing. I can see the skin reforming. Without a regenerative spell it'll just take longer for it to grow back, that's all. He's healing. He has to be.

"Kill the humans," Esalen says, her voice cold.

Craig flips off the soldier holding onto him. Then the soldier shoots him in the head. His body hits the ground a few seconds later. Tweek Tweak is next. Then the rest of the teenagers and adults are systematically killed. Stan starts screaming when a soldier empties his gun into Wendy's twitching form, and he keeps screaming until another soldier bashes a rifle into his stomach. He bends over, puking onto the ground, his hands bound cruelly behind his back and tears streaming down his face.

"These are the High Hellspawn, I presume?" Esalen says.

"I believe so," another angel on the council says.

"Hmm," she says. "Kill the Hellspawn, too."

Stan starts screaming obscenities. The four of them each receive a bullet to the skull. They slump over.

"It won't be as easy as that," Esalen says. "Hellspawn don't go down that fast. There's a special kind of metal that is sure to kill them. It's called Sky Metal."

She pulls her sword from her belt. The blade gleams in the moonlight streaming through the hole in the roof. She steps up to Kenny first. I force myself to be strong, to not look away, as she cuts off each one of their heads and their disembodied corpses grow limp. Stan's head rolls over and brushes against my feet. I choke down the bile.

We High Hellspawn and Heavenfilth don't get an afterlife.

This is all so wrong. We were supposed to win our freedom. I knew it wasn't going to be fun and games, but we were fighting for what was right. We were supposed to be the good guys. We were supposed to be the heroes and save the day.

"Hello, son of God," Esalen says, smiling at Pip.

His entire body is trembling. "T-t-t-this is blasphemy," he stammers out. "M-m-m-my father-"

"Your father sees you as a tool to use in this war," she snarls out. "You're a soldier, not a pathetic peacekeeper. Collar him," she says to the soldiers. "Give him a sword for tomorrow's battle."

Pip screams as they drag him from the room.

"Her, too," she says, jerking her head at Maria.

Chase lets out a small sound. He and Gregory are hunched over in the corner of the room. Gregory stays emotionless, expressionless. Maria screams for the two of them as she's pulled for the room. Gregory keeps a tight grip on Chase. They follow the soldiers holding Maria from the room.

And then it's just a few dozen angels, Esalen, me, and Damien's still-healing corpse.

"You," she hisses out. Every word is laced with scorn. "You have been nothing but a problem, a bug under our feet to take care of. You're a murderous bastard. You should have been killed ten years ago when you first showed your true colors-"

I spit up at her, because I don't even care any more.

She wipes away the saliva and rams a punch into my gut. My head tips back against the wall and I struggle for air once again. When I regain my sense, the Mole looks down at her.

"You know," Esalen tells the Mole. "I do think we should have you killed."

The Mole starts to laugh. "What?" he chuckles out. "Am I just not valuable to you 'eavenfilth anymore? Am I too far gone?"

"Yes." She doesn't bat an eye. "We've had this conversation before, Christophe Simon. You fight for the wrong side."

"I fight for my own side," the Mole says. "And I want to live."

His gaze is blank and guarded.

She looks up at him for a few seconds, then shrugs. "Put him in the Fridge," she tells another angel. She prods at Damien's corpse with her foot. "Oh, and put this in there as well."

* * *

That was such a happy chapter. :D

Please review!


	25. Chapter 25

This is it.

This is the end.

I'm about to spam all of your inboxes, so here's how things are going to play out tonight: There's the little!Christophe finale, the big!Christophe finale, the epilogue, and the acknowledgements and some final author's notes coming your way.

Thank you so much. Everyone. Please enjoy.

* * *

_Meant to Live_ by Switchfoot

_The Good Left Undone_ by Rise Against

_Warrior Concerto_ by The Glitch Mob

_The Greatest Show On Earth_ by Machinae Supremacy

* * *

When Christophe Simon wakes up in hell, there's an eight-year-old in a parka standing over him.

"Where am I?" he asks.

The kid in the park tells him, his voice muffled by his hood.

"Ah."

He stands up and brushes dust off his clothes. Around him is the typical fire-and-brimstone, just as he expected.

"Now what?"

The kid shrugs, and says, "Mmmpph mmmpphhhmppph."

Christophe translates this to mean roughly: _I don't know._

"'Ow long 'ave you been 'ere?"

"Mppphhh mpphhh mmppph, mmppph mpphhh."

_A few days, I guess. _

"And you still 'aven't figured out what we're supposed to be doing wiz our afterlives?"

"Mpppphhhh-"

"Take off ze damn 'ood."

The kid complies. He has a scruff of blond hair and chubby cheeks.

"What's your name?"

"Kenny McCormick," the kid replies promptly.

"I'm Christophe DeLorn. I mean, Christophe Simon."

"Identity crisis?"

"Not really."

"Cool."

Christophe looks around, surveying the area. There don't appear to be any other . . . hell-inhabitants around.

"Where are ze ozzers?"

Kenny shrugs. "Dunno. He keeps me around up here because I give him relationship advice."

"Who's ''e'?"

"Satan."

"Ah."

"Hey, aren't you from South Park? I think I've seen you around."

"_Oui."_

"Me too."

"Zat coincidence ees too great." Christophe narrows his eyes at Kenny.

"Yeah," Kenny agrees. "It's probably fate."

"You believe in fate?"

"No."

Christophe inspects him.

"You're all glowy and fade-y," Kenny says, nodding his head at him. He chews his lip. "Wonder why that is."

Christophe looks down at his body. Kenny's right. His skin gives off a bright yellow light, and his body is almost translucent. It feels like there's a blanket wrapped around him, separating him from everything else that is hell.

"Maybe eet's because I just arrived."

"I didn't look anything like that."

Christophe doesn't know it, but it's because he's a High Heavenfilth. Being a High Heavenfilth, he used up his spiritual energy just to stay alive, and he doesn't have enough left to sustain a form in one of the afterlives. He'll fade away within a few minutes.

"How'd you die?"

"Doing somezing stupid."

Kenny grins. "Me too."

The kid is shifting his weight from one foot to another. Christophe crosses his arms.

"What's up wiz you?"

"Nothing. Okay, that's a lie. Look, Satan and Sadam Hussein-"

"Sadam 'ussein?"

"His gay lover. Look, it doesn't matter. Sadam Hussein and Satan left after packing their bags a few minutes ago, and they went to like, this stage thing to give a grand speech to the council of hell leaders, and they're going to go to earth. And take over earth. And break a thousand years of darkness. And stuff."

Christophe's eyes widen.

He thought now that he was down in Hell, he wouldn't have any more heroic things to do. He could just . . . be dead.

He really hates all the heroic things.

"What can we do?" he hisses.

"Um. Nothing." Kenny blinks. "It's Sadam Freaking Hussein and Satan. I've tried warning my friends on the surface, but that's it."

"Fuck!" He clenches his fists. "Where are zey right now? Do you know? We've got to stop zem-"

"Chillax, chillax," Kenny says, laughing. "Dude, who would think the quiet weirdo kid would have so much of a savior instinct in him?"

Christophe blinks.

"No – no, I don't – "

"Sure, dude, whatever. Look, I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do."

Then he feels the rumbling under his feet. He glances up to see stalagmites shaking. The stone crashes down around them, splintering. Roaring fills the cavern. Bright light pierces the cavern from above.

Hell opens up.

Kenny starts to float. Kenny waves down at him as an invisible current in the air drags him up to the bright light above.

It's moonlight, Christophe realizes now. Stars flicker against the blackness in the sky beyond the cavern. Kenny's being taken up to the surface.

And some part of him wants to live.

"'Ey!" he screams, reaching up, trying to grasp a hold of Kenny just as the momentum carries him out of his reach. "I want to go, too! I want to be alive, too!"

"Hey, be careful, Christophe!" Kenny calls down. "With your afterlife and everything!"

"Fuck!" Christophe kicks the ground. "Of all ze fucking luck. Fuck. When I finally get down to fucking 'ell I can't even participate in ze fucking apocalypse!"

He doesn't know why he's not floating like all the other denizens of Hell. He doesn't know it's because he's not really 'there' – he's just a visitor. His body is still fading, turning translucent, the color draining out of him. He starts to feel weak and dizzy. His head throbs.

His corporeal body has almost faded in its entirety when his surroundings change.

* * *

He blinks, mind whirling. His body is solid again. Fluffy white clouds float around him. Gray sky swirls above his head.

Heaven. The reek of celestial magic clogs his nose. His fists tighten. He remembers the last time he was here. He remembers the delirium and the threats and the blood and the collar and the keys.

Then there's God, right in front of him. He blinks. He didn't even see God approach. His skin crawls as he stares down at the mish-mashed animal-parts deity. The deity stares back at him.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" he says, his voice rising in pitch. "I'm fucking dead, so why ze 'ell do I 'ave to deal wiz you? I zought zat would be one of ze advantages!"

"You aren't dead any more," God says, his voice deep and booming.

Christophe blinks again.

He and God stare at each other.

"I zought being dead was a permanent zing."

"It is."

They continue to stare.

"All right, I'm alive. Why am I up 'ere, zen? Are you going to kill me again just for ze 'ell of eet?" Because if he's alive all of a sudden, he's going to hold onto that, goddamn it.

God chuckles.

_Maybe he can hear my thoughts._

_ OH FUCKING HELL WHAT IF HE CAN READ MY THOUGHTS._

_ OF COURSE HE CAN READ MY THOUGHTS HE'S OMNIPOTENT._

"There's no need to be so alarmed," God says.

_OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST HE'S READING MY THOUGHTS. _

"Wait," Christophe snarls. "Eeff you're omnipotent, zen why ze 'ell do you need Gregory and Maria and Chase and me and all ze ozzers I killed? If you can just do whatever ze 'ell you want, you wouldn't 'ave to fuck wiz our lives."

"I am not omnipotent," God says, "although I am close enough to trick people into thinking so most of the time."

"Zen why ze 'ell did you let me escape zat time before? When I was zreatening you? Zere was no way I could 'ave gotten out eef you wanted to stop me."

God smiles. "I don't want to interfere with free will."

"Son of a beetch," Christophe says. "You 'ave some sort of manipulative, evil plan een place, don't you? You're going to fuck wiz my life even more. Zat's why you brought me back to life, eesn't it?"

"Well, not exactly," God says. "But you have the general idea."

"I'm against ze fucking Yardale School! You know zat!"

"True. But that doesn't mean you're against me."

"Fucking 'ell! You're a cocksucking beetch who only wants to make my life miserable! I knew eet! I was finally down in 'ell, I was going to get my peace and quiet, and you messed eet up! I was dead, and everyone knows to let ze dead rest in peace. I want to rest," he says, hating himself for how pathetic he sounds. "I want eet all to be over."

"You don't truly want to die, do you?"

You can read my thoughts, Christophe thinks, you don't need my confirmation. Then he realizes it's the kind of question that is supposed to invoke something deep and emotional in the person being asks.

He hates those kinds of questions, but he answers it anyway.

"I'm tired," he says. "Maybe . . . maybe I don't want to die. But I'm so, so tired. I just want to sleep and never wake up and never 'ave to deal wiz any of zis again."

God sighs.

"My child," he says.

Christophe wants to snap at him and tell him to shove it. But he's tired of fighting back. He just lets God speak.

"Your life is not going to be easy. Even if I were to take away these powers and take away the Yardale School, you would still manage to find chaos. You have a role to play. It will be a long, hard path, and it will bring you little happiness. But you can't give up, not as long as you're alive. You have to keep fighting, no matter how difficult."

"I want eet all to be over."

"It's never over."

God places a furry hand on Christophe's boot.

Christophe closes his eyes.

It would be easy to relax and sleep and pretend none of this is happening to him.

That would be lying to himself.

He wants so badly just to curl up in the eternal solitude of Hell.

He sucks in a deep breath.

Then he kicks God's hand off his boot. "Get away from me, beetch," he snarls. "I'm sick of smelling zis celestial reek. Get me ze fuck out of 'ere or I'm going myself."

God gives one of his half-smiles.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, Gregory is leaning over him.

"Are you real?" he asks.

Gregory answers without hesitation. "Infinitely so." Then he kisses him on the forehead, turns, and walks out of Christophe's line of sight.

Christophe closes his eyes and waits for the Yardale School to pick him. It takes him a minute to realize they aren't coming.

Gregory must have delayed them somehow. He wonders how much punishment the blond British fag will suffer for that.

He tips his head back and sighs. He's tired. So damn tired. Every muscle aches. It feels like rocks weigh down his limbs.

He sits up. His head spins. The world around him looks peaceful and clean. Green grass, unhindered by snow, surrounds him. He doesn't fully understand why he's alive, but it doesn't really matter and he'll work out the details later when he has time to think.

He stands up. He has to hold out his arms for balance.

His coil of rope lies by his feet. He picks it up and wraps it around his shoulder.

It takes a twenty-second self-inspection to determine that the damage done by the guard dogs has been eradicated.

Convenient.

He hears helicopters buzz from far off. Doubtlessly it's the Yardale School. He has minutes to escape, maybe less.

His shovel lies on the ground a dozen feet away. He doesn't know how it got there, but he walks over to pick it up. It's still stained with blood. It feels solid and permanent in his hands.

He smiles.

Then he starts to dig.


	26. Finale

My back presses against the metal wall. Adrenaline and panic make my thought processes blurry and incomprehensible.

Every minute or so, the Mole stands up and paces around Damien's healing corpses.

Then _I_ sit back down and return to rocking back and forth and staring at him.

The cold numbs my bare arms and legs. I have to keep reminding myself to blink. The only thing that keeps me from flipping out completely is the fact that Damien's definitely healing. I watch as flesh appears on his skull. It's been almost six hours and he's still only about a third of the way through.

The angel bastards stripped me down to just my jeans. I shiver. The cold forces me to huddle as close to Damien's corpse as possible. I end up stealing his coat from him, figuring if he can grow his head back he doesn't need it that much. It dwarfs my body, but it's warm and smells like him.

The wind slices through the cloth. I pull my knees up to my chest.

Then the Mole stands up and leans over Damien. The antichrist still doesn't move.

The Mole looks over at the sword the bastard angels gave him. It won't cut through the metal walls of the Fridge (he's already tried). But they told him Sky Metal is the one material that can well and truly kill a High Heavenfilth or Hellspawn with full use of their magical abilities.

Lethal and perfect.

The Mole sucks in air.

It would be easy. Just kill the antichrist and the angels would let him out and make him fight in their damn war.

He fingers the collar around his neck.

That easy and he wouldn't have to go through any of this 'morality' bullshit anymore.

That easy and Damien would finally get a reprieve from all the bullshit life keeps throwing at them.

Just one cut. One slice.

I sit back down on the snow. "Please wake up," I tell Damien's corpse.

* * *

His eyes crack open about eight hours later. I'm blue and numb next to him. My own eyes are half-closed as I try to sleep. He jerks up into a sitting position and grabs me, hugging me to him.

There's a collar around his neck, too. The angels put it on him after they chopped his head off.

"We're fucked," he breathes into my ear. Not even going to try to lie to me anymore.

"_Oui_," I mutter back.

"We fucked up so bad. That didn't work at all. We failed. They killed them. They killed them all. Why am I still alive?"

It's hard to work my lips, hard to move my tongue to force out the syllables.

"Zis is kind of like zeir fucking deaz trap," I mutter. "Eet's ze one last test zey're giving to me, I suppose, since I always managed to pass all ze ozzer ones. And I suppose zose zree monzs where I actually did zeir bidding made zem zink zere ees some 'ope for me."

"But why am I here?"

"Ze last time I was in ze Fridge wiz anozzer person," I say, "I ended up killing zem in order to get out."

He doesn't say anything.

"I'm cold." It's a stupid thing for me to say.

He complies to my unspoken request. His arms tighten and he pulls me until I'm leaning back against his stomach, his hands laced over my chest, my legs on top of his. I tip my head back and he warms my lips with his own.

"Zere are only two options," I say after a few seconds of indulgence in comfort. "Eizzer I kill you or I die 'ere wiz you."

He still doesn't saying anything.

"Last time, I made ze choice to get myself out of 'ere." I swallow hard. "I don't zink I can make zat choice again. Last time, I left part of myself in ze Fridge. And you – you've 'elped me get it back. And I know if I left you in here, I would be loosing the part of myself zat belongs to you."

"Oh, Christophe," he teases, his voice a guttural growl over the roar of the wind. "You're such a hopeless romantic."

I elbow him and his grip on me tightens.

_What are you waiting for?_ the Mole inside me screams. _Kill him!_

It would be so easy to let that side of me take over. I'm already hungry and exhausted and freezing cold. Outside, I'm sure Heaven and Hell are fighting and killing. They're going to have their fucking war whether we like it or not.

"We've come too far," Damien says.

I glance up at him, his face shadowed by the dim light.

"We've come too fucking far to give up now."

My heart rate starts to pick up.

"The Yardale School gave you two choices. This might be_ their _fucking game, but I'm sick and tired of playing by the rules. They want you to choose to side with them or Hell. But we're not with Heaven or Hell."

"When you don't like either side," I echo out, "zen make a zird side."

"Yeah," he says, his eyes narrowing. He starts to clamber to his feet and I stand up with him. My muscles groan from being in one position for too long.

"We're not with Heaven or Hell. We're La Resistance, and we will never give up."

* * *

We talk in hushed voices, in cryptic whispers, in the deep-down freezing blackness of the manufactured night. Snowflakes tapper down and coat our hair. We cling to each other for warmth. We plan our escape.

"They won't let you out of here unless they think you've killed me," Damien says decisively, finally. "So we have to make them think you killed me."

"What? Cut of your 'ead wiz ze sword? Zat actually would kill you, and zey won't buy eet eef I do it any ozzer way."

"Maybe you could pretend to do it through my heart or something."

"But zey would notice eef I d-d-didn't really stab you." A violent shiver runs through me and makes me stammer over my words. He hugs me closer. Even with the collar on him, he still gives off massive amounts of body heat.

"Zey can tell you're alive because of your vitals," I say. "What eef we convinced zem your 'eart 'ad stopped? Like, you were covered in snow and very cold."

"They still wouldn't buy it if I didn't have the sword stuck in me or something."

"You wouldn't be able to survive zat."

"I'd have to," he says grimly.

I grit my teeth. My fingers slip over the cool sky-metal of the sword. "Zis ees fucked up," I mutter.

"Yeah," he says, planting a kiss on my cheek. "It is."

I glance up at the videocameras, then flip them off. The microphones won't be able to pick up our voices over the roar of the wind, but they can still watch our facial expression and make a guess at reading our lips.

"But what eef we do get out? What zen? We'll still 'ave ze collars on us."

"They'll take the collar off me if they think I'm dead," he says.

"I don't know eef zey will. Not unless zey're sure."

"Make my head look all damaged or something. Or make the collar look all damaged. Make them think you went into, like, berserker mode after killing me."

"You definitely wouldn't survive zat. Wounds from zis kind of metal don't 'eal ze same way-"

"Then make them with your own fists," he says, rolling his eyes.

I stare at him. "Are you fucking crazy?" I hiss. "I can't beat you up!"

"You're going to have to," he says.

"I can't! You're my . . ." I pause. "My . . . antichrist! Zat's what you are. You're my antichrist, I can't beat my own antichrist up!"

"Christophe," he says. "We have to do what it takes to get out of here."

* * *

We plan our dramatic farewell for the cameras. It will take place earlier in the morning, when the light still messes with the visuals, but they'll get a full view of me killing Damien and won't suspect foul play.

It's supposed to be dramatic and angsty. And an act. Oh, yeah, it's supposed to be an act.

The wind has died down, so I press my mouth up to his ear like I'm whispering a sweet goodbye to him.

"If zey figure out we've tricked zem, zey'll kill you zemselves."

"I'm dead if we stay in here anyway. We both are," he whispers back. "Haven't we had this conversation before, back before we escaped from Yardale for the first time? You have to stop hesitating, you can't be so fucking afraid."

"Ze last time I did somezing as rash and as stupid as zis," I mutter, "I ended up killing a lot of innocent children just for me to escape. I don't want you to be ze fucking sacrificial lamb, okay? I'm sick of people dying just for me to live."

"I'll be fine," he says, and I can see the fear in his eyes and I know how fucking scared he is. He traps my lips with his, captures my breath, urges on my heart rate. When we pull back, his face is white from cold, but splotched with red.

"You have to do it, Christophe," he says loudly, and I know it's time. "You have to get out of here alive. I don't want you to die."

"No, Damien!" I cry, grabbing at his arms. He reaches around me and latches onto the sky-metal sword. We're kneeling on the ground, facing each other, close enough to smell each other's breaths.

"You have to live," he says, and I don't think he's acting anymore.

Then he places the hilt of the sword in my grasp. I take a deep breath, tighten my grip, and shove the blade forward.

It's surprisingly difficult to move it through his flesh. He lets out little whimpers of pain but keeps his gaze steady on me. I ignore the sounds emitting from him and managing to keep pushing forward. Blood splatters out from the wound and stains my arms and face and clothes. His blood smells like him, like copper and sulfur and Hell and my own personal Heaven. My exhausted muscles scream from the effort. My exhausted heart screams from the effort.

I make sure to stab him three inches above the heart. He said he would be fine; he assured me of it. Somehow, seeing all the blood gushing makes me doubt him.

His eyes roll back in his head. I release the sword, leaving the blade in his body, and press my ear against his chest. Blood coats my cheek and ear and mats in my hair. He still has a heartbeat.

Funny. Sky metal doesn't look or smell or feel like any other metal. But his skin doesn't immediately start knitting back together like usual.

Something inside me feels hollow.

I start to spread snow over his body, like I'm burying him, although what I'm really trying to do is numb him enough to fool the Yardale guys into thinking he's dead. Soon there's a layer of slush over his skin. I close his eyes, letting his lashes tickle my thumbs.

He looks dead. I can barely hear his heartbeat and I'm this close to him. His skin isn't healing.

I have to constantly remind myself that he's still alive.

Now comes the tough part. I have to beat the crap out of his collar and make it look damaged.

Now the dramatic act, just for the cameras.

"Damien?" I cry out. "Please. Damien. Please say you're not dead. Please. Please, Damien, please."

Then everything goes horribly, horribly wrong.

* * *

Lilac looks like the same delicate, broken seven-year-old she was all those years ago. She stands on the ground next to Damien's corpse and stares at me.

"You killed me," she said.

I stand up and start to back away. She starts to tip-toe towards me.

She still has the bashed-in head. I remember the way my shovel felt in my hands when it connected with her skull. Blood trickles down her neck.

"You killed me."

"I was trapped," I stammer out. "I had no choice, I had to get out, somehow-"

"There's always choices," Jorge sneers, next to me.

I let out a whining sound and back away from them until my shoulders hit the metal wall.

"The fact is, Christophe," Xander says, "you didn't have to kill us. You could have just suffered like the rest of us."

"You were ze ones making me suffer!" I snarl.

"Were we?" Lou asks, his accent thick. "Huh." He shrugs. "Details."

"You still killed us," Jonas says.

"You killed us," Alec says.

"You killed me. And you killed me. You killed me. You killed me. -"

"Shut ze fuck up!" I scream. "I 'aven't 'ad any 'allucinations een years!"

"You haven't?" Jonas asks. Then: "Well, we must be real, then."

"No, we're not, dumbass." Alec elbows him. "Stop lying."

"You stop lying! We're totally real!"

"_Amigos, amigos_, it doesn't matter," Jorge chastises. "Either way, little moley here was the one who killed us." He grins at me. "Right?"

The six of them surround me. Lilac is crying now, scrubbing at her eyes with her hands.

"Why did I have to die?" She refuses to look at me. "I wanted to die so badly. Why did I have to die?"

"Zat doesn't make any sense!" I scream. "You're fucking crazy!"

"Mole, you're the crazy one," Jorge says. "You're the one who's talking to us."

"Fuck!" I slide down to sit, hunched over at the snow, staring at my hallucinations. "I'm not crazy," I mutter. "I'm not. I'm not. I'm really not. I'm not crazy. I-"

Damien clamps his hand over my mouth.

I blink once and stare up at him. Then I realize he's my imagination, too, because this Damien is clean and fresh and new, and the real Damien is still a corpse in the snow.

"Snap out of it," he says. "And it's going to be okay, I promise. Yeah, I know I'm lying, but I promise it anyways."

I wave my hand up at him and he disappears. The rest of them disappear. I blink again.

Then I stand up and go tear into Damien's collar.

* * *

That's where the soldiers find me, pounding against the collar, even managing to dent the metal a little bit, even as I bruise my fists. They drag us out of the Fridge. My body stings as it defrosts. Someone takes Damien's coat from me and throws a fresh uniform jacket around my shoulders.

I don't even start to argue until they lay his corpse on the gurney and start to roll him away. They pull the sword out of his torso and wipe off the blood and take his corpse in the opposite way.

I start to scream. I'm still shrieking as they drag me away, even as I see one of them unfasten his dented collar from around his neck and drop it into a trash can. The ice crystals on his chest are tinted red.

I keep screaming.

The soldiers keep their grips on my shoulders firm, ignoring my pathetic struggling attempts. Even after just a day and a half in the Fridge, I'm exhausted and numb. Someone drags me into an interrogation room and deposits me in a chair. Another soldiers wraps a blanket around my shoulders and hands me a mug of coffee while an angel soothes my frostbite within just a minute of intense healing.

When I finally look up again, Purple is sitting in a chair across the room from me. The ice in my hair is starting to defrost. Water melts down my back. I'm shivering harder than I've ever shivered in my life.

"Well," Purple says. "That was certainly not a very fun venture. I'm so sorry about your husband, Christophe, but it really was quite necessary. For the good of humankind and all that."

I don't say anything, just stare down at the mug of coffee warming my crimson-stained hands.

"You see, Damien was pure evil. When it comes down to it, we're the good guys, and he's one of the bad guys. There's no in between, none of this 'La Resistance' mess you keep coming up with. Yes, he might have been nice to you, but that doesn't mean he wasn't one of those slimey, disgusting Hellspawn."

My numb tongue and cool anger keep my mouth shut.

"Now that you've got all those ridiculous emotional bonds out of the way, you'll be able to focus fully on your position as one of the lead fighters in our war. If you would just let yourself use all that filthy magic you stole, you'd be a splendid fighter. You would win the war for us. Why, all your celestial friends are fighting in the war right now. You wouldn't want them to be fighting on your own, would you? Wouldn't want them to die, too, hmm? There's really no reason for you to fight for any other side but Heaven's-"

"Fuck. You."

She blinks. "Excuse me."

"Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck your cocksucking beetch of a God." I watch as her expression changes, the color of her face deepening to match her eyes. "I won't fight in your war. I will never fight for you again. I don't care what you do to me_, I will never fucking break_."

There's a booming sound down the hallway.

She blinks. "What the hell could that-"

Then Damien bursts into the room.

* * *

He's wearing only the ragged remains of his jeans, fire pouring from his hands and blazing in his eyes. The deep wounds in his skin fade as magic pumps through his body.

He hauls me to my feet and pulls me into his arms. I hug him back with just as much force. I hear Purple splutter and gasp. Damien stretches an arm out and shoots a puff of fire at her. She screams and throws up a shield.

He grabs the collar around my neck and starts to pulse magic through it, his brow furrowing up in concentration. I feel the metal heat up and close my eyes.

The collar explodes outward, bits of hot metal scraping out skin. My own magic rushes through me. The collar was a damn, and now my veins are being flooded. I take a deep breath, and Damien and I turn to look at Purple.

She glances back and forth between the two of us, then jumps up and melts through the ceiling.

"Shit!" Damien grips my wrist. I gasp out in shock as my entire body half-disappears. We follow Purple through the ceiling. I can't feel anything but Damien's hand. We're translucent and blurry as we pass through the floors.

We float upwards. All the rooms are empty; all the soldiers must be out fighting in the fucking war. It's eerily quiet.

"We're never doing anything as goddamn stupid as that again," Damien says, breaking the silence.

"You just cursed us. Now we're definitely going to end up doing eet again," I mutter, but I still feel so alive, so freaking alive, my heart beating rapidly and the freezing cold lifted from my bones, and-

We reach the ground floor, and there's Purple, and there's Gregory. He's covered in black demon gunk and red human blood and blue angel blood and bowing before her, like she called him in from the war or something. He looks incredibly unsurprised when he sees me and Damien float up through the floor.

Purple whispers something into Gregory's ear, then turns and stalks out of the room. We watch her go, our fists clenched and teeth gritted.

"I'm afraid I can't let you pass," Gregory says.

Damien lets go of the spell keeping us surreal. He pants hard, sweat rolling down his face. "Sorry," he mutters down at me. "That spell's kinda hard. And I'm exhausted."

I nod, keeping my gaze locked on Gregory.

"Damien," I say. "You 'ave to go find your fazzer, you 'ave to stop 'im from letting zis war go on. Find Maria and Chase, zey'll try to stop ze ozzer side eef zey zink zey 'ave 'elp."

He tenses next to me. "You-"

"I'll stay here and deal with Gregory."

"I'm afraid," Gregory says, in a dry, half-amused voice, "I'm not supposed to let either of you pass."

I roll my eyes and lunge at Gregory, tackling him over. Damien runs past us. Gregory stretches out an arm to do something, anything, but I punch him in the face before he can get a spell out. By the time I've climbed on top of him and straddled him, pinning his hands above his head, Damien is gone.

"Please get off me," he says, "before I'm forced to use violent force."

"Quit fucking talking like that," I say, and punch him in the face again. I know he's letting me hit him, and that pisses me off, because if no one had ever put magic into the mix I could beat the shit out of him.

Hell. I can _still _beat the shit out of him.

I pull back my fist again to deliver another punch to his pretty-boy nose. Then a whip of magic snags my wrist and sends me flying through the air. My back hits the far wall. My vision blurs for a second.

Gregory is heading towards the door. Going after Damien.

I stagger to my feet and launch myself at him again. He whirls and slams an elbow into my nose, breaking it. I crash to the floor again.

Fuck beating the shit out of him. I just want to stay alive.

"You're not going after 'im," I pant out, my voice clogged by my broken nose.

He glowers at me, gore coloring his uniform.

"Try and stop me."

This time when I leap at him, I manage to get both hands around his neck. I squeeze for a second before a draft of air yanks me free of him and sends me flying back to the floor again. Wooden boards snap free of the floor as my body slides back. By the time I ram into the wall, my back is a bleeding mess.

I cough up a wad of blood. Gregory stalks over to me, his eyes narrowed. He grabs me by the collar and drags me to my feet. His fist comes back.

The force of his blow makes my head snap back. He knees me in the stomach and my legs give way underneath me. My body hits the grounds. I struggle for air. He turns and starts to walk away. Towards the door. Going after Damien.

No.

My fingers curl into fists. I stagger to my feet, my vision swirling around me. He turns back and stares at me.

I lift my fist and stumble towards him. He takes me down in less than a second. I collapse onto my back, breathing heavily, my body aching. I clench my fists and try to stand again.

He kicks me down and presses my chest down with his boot. "Why don't you ever just stop?" he growls. He slams his boot down on my broken nose. A scream escapes me, against my will. "_Why don't you ever fucking give up_?"

My fingers scrabble for purchase. They manage to latch onto his boot. I start to tug it off me.

"Bloody hell," he says.

He sits on top of me, grabs my forehead, and slams it back against the broken floor. I see stars. Blood fills my mouth. I'm making a hoarse, rasping, keening sound, but I can't help myself, can't keep from struggling and writhing and trying to keep him off me. My mind advises me that the safest course of action would be to give up and let Gregory go after Damien. I don't usually listen to that silly little thing called 'common sense.'

I start swearing at him.

He grabs my wrists, pins them above my head with one hand, and silences me with his lips.

I try to bite at him but it doesn't make him pull away. He keeps his mouth on mine, invading my mouth with his tongue, kissing me in a way I've never been kissed before.

And I don't want to be kissed this way by anyone, least of all Gregory.

I try to struggle away by my exhaustion hinders me. He keeps my chin in place with his other hand. When he pulls away, he's breathing hard and glowering down at me.

"Fucking let me go," I whisper out. Panic swamps through me. I try to keep my eyes narrowed and my teeth gritted, try not to let Gregory know he can freak me out like this.

But he sees right through me. He always does.

"Do you have any idea what you do to my head, Christophe Simon?" he says, rather mockingly, then crashes down on my mouth again.

I struggle and writhe. The panic starts to build in me. When he pulls back a second time, there are tears in my eyes, against my will.

"Gregory, stop eet. You're not one of zose bastards. We've got a fucking war to fight. Let me go."

"My orders were to kill you," he says, pressing my shoulders down, his breath in my face. I'm limp underneath him. Blood runs down my back, soaking the floor around us. Blood loss makes me dizzy. I'm still exhausted from my day and a half in the Fridge. I don't have the energy to fight back.

But somehow, I manage to glare up at him. "Fine, zen. Kill me. Kill ze boy you grew up wiz, who you went zrough 'ell wiz, who you called a fucking 'ero-"

"That's right, Mole," he snarls. "You are a hero. And I think . . . I think I might be the bad guy."

His hands grip my shoulders. They start to heat up, burning at me. It hurts. It hurts a lot. I struggle as best I can, but he's a hell of a lot stronger than me.

"You're not a bad guy," I start to babble. "You're not ze villain, zey've just told you zat you 'ave to be one your whole life. You've just been tricked and forced into working into some assholes. Eet's not your fault. Maybe a little bit of eet ees your fault. But you were afraid, you were just a kid, we were all just kids-"

"Shut up!" His blow hits my cheek.

I stare up at the ceiling above me; my hands are limp at my sides. Blood loss makes my head swim and colors blur.

My breath comes in quick rasps. Every second brings a new stab of pain slicing through me. He wants to kill me. I can tell. Or at least, he wants to be able to kill me.

"Zose Yardale bastards are ze ones pulling your strings. I'm not ze enemy 'ere, and neizzer are you. Please –" I suck in a deep breath, forcing down the screaming inside of me. "Please. Fucking zink for a second."

He stops and hunches over on top of me. I look at him and see for the first time he's crying. I can't remember the last time I saw him cry.

He wipes his eyes but doesn't stop. His shoulders shake. "I've fucked up so badly," he mumbles. "In the past eleven years, I've fucked up so badly. The only thing I ever did right was giving you that bloody plan to get out of Yardale."

"Zat was my own personal fuckup." I reach up and smudge a few tears from his face. His weight still crushes me, but I manage to drown out the fear. "Get ze fuck off me."

He rolls over and I sit up.

"'eal me up," I say, my voice cold. His hands flutter over my injured back. I close my eyes as the warmth floods through me. Within less than a minute, my skin has sealed over. The scorched, charred skin turns a healthy coppery tan again. I feel energized and new, although hunger still claws at my stomach.

He sits with his knees to his chest, his head in his arms, not saying anything, not rocking back and forth, just sitting.

"I don't forgive you for ze zings you've done," I tell him, "or what you did just zen. I cannot forgive you for hunting me down like prey. I can never forgive you for zat."

He nods into his hands.

I put my hand on his metal collar and reach for the magic inside of me. It takes several tries to latch onto the 'rope.' My metaphorical hands are sticky with sweat, same as my real-life palms. Finally, I have my magic in my grasp. I start to feed it into Gregory's collar.

It takes several minutes. I keep loosing my grasp on my magic. I feel it start to heat uncontrollably. I give it one more pulse of magic before pulling my hands free.

The collar shatters into a thousand metal shards, falling into a little pile on the floor. Gregory keeps staring straight ahead.

"Ees zere a room somewhere where zey keep all ze stuff zey've seized from zeir prisoners, or somezing?" I demand.

He nods.

"Take me zere."

It's on the second floor. Yardale School is entirely empty and silent inside, although I hear the battle raging outside, hear the screams and shouts. The reek of both Heavenfilth and Hellspawn makes my head spin. I can sense all that magic, and it fucking hurts.

The room is filled with items carefully organized by capture date and name. I stumble past clothing, weapons of all sort, and even toys and books and such. It's only when I get to a certain date in late September do I let out a sigh of relief.

There are the things I had on me. A pack of smokes and a lighter I distinctly remember stealing from Damien. A few wadded-up dollar bills. And my shovel.

My shovel. It's not 'battle magic', it's not a hallucination, it's my real-life shovel, right in front of me.

I light one of the cigarettes and stick it between my lips, then offer Gregory another one. He gives me a 'are-you-fucking-crazy' look, then accepts.

I stuff the cigarettes into my pocket and reach out. My fingers curl around the handle of my shovel. I heft it in my arms, judge its weight. I remember every groove and every dent, and how all of them got there.

The nicotine calms my nerves, and my shovel gives me confidence. I turn back to Gregory.

"Let's go stop zis fucking war."

* * *

When Kenny wakes up, he's buried under a pile of rubble. He gasps out and dust fills his lungs. He coughs, which makes the rubble around him shift.

He pushes his way free. Sunlight pours down on him. His sweatshirt hood falls back and he tips his face into the sun.

He remembers every detail of this particular death.

It hurt enough when his parents died, honestly. It hurts every day to see them down in Hell instead of up on the surface, drinking alcohol and fighting like they should be. He hates their guts most of the time, but there are rare times when he can stand to be around them.

But Stan and Kyle and Cartman . . .

They weren't down in Hell. He knows enough to know they don't get an afterlife.

He swallows hard.

It was just supposed to be him. He was supposed to be the 'one who died.' The other guys were always fine. Every single damn time. It pissed him off, but . . .

Now he's more like 'the one who lived.'

And he doesn't like that title any more than his previous one.

He pushes himself to his feet and stumbles down to the bottom of the pile. He's inside the broken remains of the white house. The stone under his feet is cracked and filthy.

They broke his world. They took his friends and they broke his world.

The black wings stretch out from his shoulders. With one flap, he takes to the sky. He heads north, using magic to accelerate his speed until he's shooting through the sky.

* * *

We run down the hallways.

We jump over the staircases.

We burst out the door.

The battle rages in front of us.

It trashes over the dead grass, scuffs up the road, crashes into the gate.

Soldier fighting soldier. Angel against demon. Blood sprays the ground. Shrieking, grunts, sword clashing with sword. The battle spills out the gates, fills the surrounding highway and grasslands, stretching on for miles. Winged creatures claw at each other in the air. A body crashes down in the ground inches from me.

I take two steps and a demon tackles me, a humanoid with bared teeth and huge red eyes. My back hits the grass. Gregory lets out a yell next to me. I draw my fist back and slam it into her jaw. Her teeth crack and she rolls off me. I jump to my feet, but a Hellspawn soldier aims his rifle at me. I pull my shovel from my back and smash it into his gut.

Gregory grabs me around the waist, and before I can argue, takes to the air. We duck around the other battlers, rushing into the sky. He doesn't stop flapping until we're a thousand feet up.

"Zis ees chaos," I say, trying to catch my breath. "Zis eesn't a battle or a war. Zis ees a massacre on boz sides. Zere ees nozing fucking civilized about zis."

"Other battles weren't like this," Gregory says. His forehead creases. "I think they probably meant to have a 'proper' battle, and then it erupted." His accent is back in full swing. He's like me, probably: stress and fear make it worse.

"We 'ave to stop eet. We need to find Damien and make sure 'e's gotten to 'is fazzer."

Gregory swoops downwards. Battling angels and demons clog our path, but he ducks us around him. I really wish I could fly on my own. His arms stay locked around me as we descend. The roar of the battle below makes my ears ring. I spot Maria on the ground below, half-buried by a mass of cat-shaped demons. Gregory notices her half-a-second after, because he flies us over to her. We jump to the ground and start hauling the demons off her. She incinerates them as soon as we free her.

There's a slight break in the battle around us. The demons are not want to attack three pissed-off Heavenfilth.

Her eyes are ringed with red and black. She bleeds from several wounds and I wonder why she hasn't healed herself yet. Exhaustion? Her clothes are ripped and something's burned the right side of her head, scarring her eye, turning her cheek an ugly red, and searing off half her hair. She's wearing one of the fucking collars.

"Have you two worked out your issues yet?" she demands, her voice hoarse.

"Duck," Gregory says. We all duck and a pillar of flame flies over us. His sword materializes in his hand. Then he slices in half the demon that spit fire at us.

"Yeah," he says. "I think we did."

I glare at him.

"I'm not going to try to capture or kill Christophe anymore," he says hurriedly.

"Christophe? You?" Maria demands. She sends a wave of water crashing out at a demon pouncing for us.

I stare at her blankly. She motions with her free hand, still shooting water out of her other hand.

"What? You 'onestly expect me to fucking trust zis cocksucker after all 'e's done to me?"

She elbows me.

"I won't trust 'im, but I'll save my beatdown of 'im till after zis fucking war ees over."

"Good Christophe." She reaches up and pats me on the head. "So. No collars. Fun stuff. Mind helping me get mine off?"

Gregory lets his fingers rest on her collar. A demon swoops out of the sky, making a beeline for the two of them. I bash it over the head with my shovel and it crumples to the ground, unconscious. Our slight clearing is slowly shrinking as more of the soldiers stumble closer to us.

A minute passes while the collar heats up. When it explodes, Maria looks physically relived.

"Thank fucking god," she mumbles. "Thank you, Gregory."

He shrugs, looking sick. "What happened to Chase?"

Maria points to the burned-up right side of face. "Fire demon," she says. "I- . . . I-it got me right here, but . . ."

She turns away to blast another demon coming for us.

"I made it evaporate right after, but I was too late."

We both stare at her.

"No," Gregory says.

Something drops inside of me.

These three were pretty much my entire motivation when I was six and seven years old. Keeping them alive was the only reason I fought as hard as I did. Maria and Chase stayed strong and good even as the years past, even as the Yardale School tried to feed them their lies (Gregory is the only one of us four who really listened).

Chase was always "the good guy." We used to tease him about how naïve and innocent he was. He always believed in people being "good."

It was . . . it was . . .

"No," Gregory says again.

"You fucking knew zere were going to be casualties," I snarl to him. "You knew we were just going to be ze fucking sacrifices for zis stupid war. Don't – don't act so fucking surprised."

He punches me in the gut, hard, which I definitely deserved.

"They said if I did whatever they wanted, then Chase and Maria wouldn't be hurt-"

"Zey were lying, beetch," I hiss out. "Zey fucking lied to us for eleven years. Zis war means all of us will die. All of us. You understand eet, oui? Ze only way for us all to live ees for us all to fight een the first place."

"You mean run away?" He's still staring at nothing.

"No." I rake my fingers through my hair. "I don't mean run away."

Maria has this half-mad, half-scared look in her eyes.

"Come on. We 'ave to find Damien."

* * *

Kenny flies north because he doesn't know what else to do, and he only starts loosing altitude because his head hurts and his limbs ache and his muscles scream from overuse and his magic is starting to fade away.

He sees the battle raging below him, spreading out for miles in every direction. He dodges around the fighting humanoids in the sky. His wings fold behind his back when he touches down to the roof of the huge building. The black feathers whispers over his flesh before disappearing. There are other soldiers on the roof, but they ignore him in favor of beating the shit out of each other.

He kicks open the door and runs down the stairs. Other soldiers spill into the building behind him, and he doesn't know whether they're with Hell or Heaven, but he decides it doesn't matter.

He almost looses balance several times on the way down the stairs. He makes it to the ground floor, somehow, panting hard. Then he proceeds to run further underground.

He doesn't know what's guiding him. Instinct? Magic? Something else? He stops at the very bottom floor and leaves the stairwell.

It's quiet down here. Quiet enough for the sound of his footsteps to echo off the walls, quiet enough for his panicked breaths to fill his ears. His sneakers hit the tiled floor. The florescent lights cast an eerie glow to his skin, making him look sick and yellowish.

He opens the first door. It reveals a six-by-six-by-six cell, with glaringly white walls, furnished only with a glaringly white bench. He tiptoes out of it and heads to the next door.

Opening this door reveals the same cell, but this one has a . . . person in it. His stomach clenches. The humanoid on the floor is curled up into a little ball. It doesn't seem to notice him. The wounds on its flesh ooze black sludge. His instincts tell him what it is and where it's aligned, but he doesn't particularly care about that. He closes the door, and leans against it, taking a deep breath. The hallway is air-conditioned and smells like antiseptic.

He opens the next door down. None of the doors seem to be locked; maybe they lock from the inside. There's nothing in this cell, and nothing in the next room down. The fifth cell holds another humanoid oozing the same black gunk. It breathes in deep, raspy gulps, each sound the deadest sound he's ever heard. He's heard a lot of things that were close to death. He shuts the door and has to struggle to calm himself before entering the sixth room.

There's a boy curled up on the bench, a skeleton of a child with a threadbare blanket thrown over his body. He looks like he hasn't eaten in months. Scars and open wounds mar his skin. A collar is sealed around his neck. His eyes have been ripped out. Empty sockets are all that remains.

Kenny swallows his bile.

The boy's mouth opens slightly, revealing a mouth with only a couple of teeth. "Who . . . who's there . . . " he mumbles before curling his legs closer to his chest.

A scruff of blond hair reveals his identity.

"Fuck. They just left you here and forgot about you, didn't they?" Kenny rubs his eyes. "I'm going to get you out of here, Butters. It's all going to be okay."

"Kenny?" Butters mumbles, twisting around and trying to sit up. He doesn't have the energy to lift himself up. Kenny grabs him before he can fall. The boy has to weigh a hundred and ten pounds tops. Something inside of Kenny screams.

Butters is the only one left. There were four of them; him and Stan and Kyle and Cartman. But then there was Butters. Kenny doesn't know if Butters can count as another one of his friends, but he really doesn't have anyone else left.

His parents. His friends. He can't loose the annoying little squirt, too.

Kenny's not great at magic, but after three months of training he can get his way around. He conjures a pair of jeans and a t-shirt up for Butters, then helps him get into them. He heals up his wounds by willing the magic into him. Then he shatters his collar.

Butters still looks almost dead. Kenny isn't quite sure how to conjure up food, and he thinks what Butters really needs right now is an IV drip, so he just pulls him into his arms, carrying him as gently as possible.

"Hold on, Butters," he says. "I'm going to get you to a hospital, okay?"

"All . . . all right, then," Butters mumbles. His missing teeth make his pronunciation almost incomprehensible. Kenny's going to have to ask someone how to regrow teeth. How to regrow eyes, too. Whenever he moves his hands over Butters' eye sockets, the bitter feel of celestial magic makes him yank his hand away. Maybe an angel took them out or something, and that's why he can't grow them back. Maybe Christophe will have more luck.

Kenny takes an elevator up the stairs so he doesn't jar Butters. Butters is still staring out at nothing, so Kenny uses his thumb to move his eyelids over his empty sockets.

"Kenny? Kenny, are my parents okay?"

"Your parents? Oh, yeah, they're fine," he says, before remember the angels killed pretty much all of the South Park survivors. He doesn't think Butters can handle that right now, so he just keeps talking in a reassuring, soothing voice (or what he hopes is a reassuring, soothing voice).

"You'll see, Butters. We'll get out of here and Christophe will get your eyes fixed up and we'll move back to South Park and everything will be awesome again-"

"Where are Stan and Kyle and Eric?"

"They're out, um, getting some stuff done." He swallows hard. "Just stay quiet, okay? I think you're too sick to talk."

There's a thumping noise above them. Kenny looks up just in time to see a blade slice through the roof of the elevator above them. A mangled scream worms its way up his throat but dies before it can make it past his lips. The blade sticks in the elevator above them. The elevator stops moving. There's another thumping sound above them. He hears the screaming now, the battle cries of the fray outside the elevator.

"What was that?" Butters tries to lift his head. Kenny presses Butters' forehead back against his arm with his free hand, shifting the boy's weight from arm to arm in an attempt to keep from dropping him.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

He shifts one hand free and points a finger at the elevator doors. It takes a second, but the metal starts to pry away and reveal the floor outside. The sounds of gunshots and screaming become even louder. He grips tighter to Butters and manages to crawl out of the elevator, which stopped halfway above the ground floor. His sneakers hit the lobby. Butters moans and shifts in his arms.

Soldiers are grappling with each other around them, their respective white and black uniforms ripped and filthy. Gunshots echo through the lobby. Bodies litter the ground.

Kenny throws up a magical shield, even though he can feel his magic slipping away. He bursts out the door and the full-out war greets him.

Butters clings to his hoodie.

"Uhm." It's hard for Kenny to work his tongue, even harder for him to talk loud enough to be heard over the battle.

"I think the hospital's gonna have to wait."

* * *

A few hundred feet down the road from Yardale School, there is a slight hill with a clearing on the crest, surrounded by trees. Soldiers spill around the hill, but don't climb it. The higher powers in the clearing scare the weaker soldiers away.

I spot Damien tugging at his father, shouting at him while Satan strikes angels down from the sky. Pip is throwing bright flashes at the demons surrounding Satan. Esalen and the other angels on the council stride purposefully towards Satan, their transparent-half-real wings fluttering behind them.

Maria touches to the ground and Gregory lets me to drop into a crouch before fluttering down himself. I pull my shovel off my back and hold it out in front of me, ready to smash it down.

We end up right in the middle of the battle. They see us approach. The angels stop trying to attack Satan. Damien stops tugging at my father and turns to watch me.

Esalen wears an expression I can't place. Her lips are drawn back in a closed smile, her eyes are guarded, and her brow furrows. She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"Gregory," an all-too familiar voice says. "Gregory? What are you doing?"

Rita Grayson is standing with the angels, her chin tipped up, her lacquered eyelashes fluttering.

"Gregory, what are you doing?"

Gregory freezes up.

"Don't listen to the paedo bitch," Maria snaps, her fists trembling. "We're not fighting for them anymore, remember?"

"Gregory," Rita Grayson says. "You know who the good guys are. You've known your whole life."

He clenches his fists. "I do know," he says, "and it bloody well isn't you."

She lets out a short laugh.

"Just because we sometimes have to do bad things doesn't mean we're bad people. We have to fight like this because ultimately, Hell wants to take over the world and slaughter all the humans, and we want to save it. That's the truth of it, Gregory. That's the truth and you know it. Don't forget everything you've worked so hard for. Don't be reckless. Fight for the good guys."

"No," I say, but he's already walking towards her. She hooks one of his arms around her waist, leaning into his body. He doesn't look at me.

Heaven stands on one side of the clearing, Hell on the other.

"Gregory," Maria says pleadingly.

He shakes his head.

"I can't do it without Chase," she says to me. "I just can't. I- I don't want to be alone when you die, too."

She rubs at her eyes and walks to stand on Esalen's other side. Pip, next to her, squeezes her hand, even though he doesn't even know her. He's always been the sickeningly naïve asshole. The angels fall back behind the High Heavenfilth and Esalen.

Esalen smirks at Satan across the clearing. Probably thrilled because she has more power or something. Of course. She has three High Heavenfilth and Satan only has Damien, who looks about as happy to fight as I am.

"You do know how this is going to play out, don't you, Lucifer?" she calls across the clearing.

Satan's demons flank him, but their force is still smaller than Heaven's.

"Wait a fucking minute!"

We all turn to look.

Kenny climbs up the hill to stand in the middle next to me. An emaciated boy curls up in his arms, and it takes me a second to recognize him as Butters.

. . . Butters is alive?

"All of you assholes wait a minute," Kenny says, glaring at Esalen, then at Satan.

"Which one of you did this to him?" he snarls out. "Which one of you fucked with Butters like this? I know it was one of you! My magic tells me! Who was it?"

Rita Grayson raised her hands, shrugging. She gives a slight smile. "I'm so sorry. It was necessary."

"You fucking bitch!" Fire flares out from his mouth. He hugs Butters tighter. Butters lets out a slight whimper.

"I've learned something to day," Kenny says calmly. "I've learned that even the good guys can be pretty fucked up sometimes. I've learned that everyone can die and even the best cause can have horrible results if you fight about it in the wrong way. I've learned that the bad guys will fucking kill you, and you have to be able to put your all into fighting them back. And I've learned sometimes it's better to side with the assholes, because in the end, they didn't kill your best friends in the world. So fuck you."

He spits in Grayson's general direction. Then he turns and carries Butters over to stand with Damien.

Something inside me feels cramped-up and nauseated. I'm the only one still standing in them middle. I glance at Damien, who's still snarling hushed whispers at his father, then at Gregory.

Satan and Esalen glare each other down. They're two presumptuous angels who think they're smarter than that beetch, God, who think they know how the state of the world should be carried out.

I see how this will play. We'll fight each other and everyone will die. They won't die as martyrs, and they won't die as war heroes. They'll just be corpses in the end. The battle will swallow up a decent part of the world with the destructive violence. I can't imagine Damien and Gregory going down without a fight as least as violent as a couple of nuclear bombs. And we'll fight and the soldiers will fight and in the end, everyone will die. Someone will win, I suppose, and someone will control the earth. But a lot of people will be dead.

I don't want to see any of these people dead.

My shovel starts to glow and heat in my hands. I glance down at it. Somehow, the spontaneous magic should surprise me.

It doesn't.

I'm kind of scared to use this magic. I did a horrible thing to steal it from its previous owners. I became a monster in order to possess this power.

I admit what I did was wrong. I hate myself for letting Yardale force me into making that choice.

I'm not going to let them force me into anything anymore. I'm not afraid anymore.

I lift the shovel over my head and –

* * *

The world shifts.

I have to blink several times for my brain to start processing the new surroundings.

We appear to be on the roof of Yardale School. There's a giant grayish bubble around us, like a protective shield. The angels and demons, including Satan and Esalen, are outside the grayish bubble, but they don't seem to be moving. It's like something's frozen them in place. Magic. My magic, maybe?

The seven of us High Heavenfilth and Hellspawn are standing on a giant chessboard. The squares beneath us are two feet by two feet, and made of carved marble. I stand in the middle. Damien, Kenny and Butters are on one side; Gregory, Maria and Pip stand on the other.

The others' appearances startle me at first. They don't look like their defined selves anymore. Damien's side are just pure black, like someone took all the color out of them and sharpied them over. Gregory's side is pure white, like all the color was bleached out of them. And when I glance down at myself, my entire body is grey.

"It's been a long time."

I whirl. A skinny, ten-year-old girl in a ripped-up dress stands behind me with her hands behind her back. She grins at me, revealing a mouth missing the two front teeth.

"Hey," Emma says. "How'ya doing, Christophe?"

I rub my temples. "Fuck. Not more 'allucinations."

"Nope," she says. "I'm actually not a hallucination. All the souls of the damned down in Hell, we figured you'd been through enough with the crazy visions. So, no. I'm a ghost. And I'm telling the truth, I swear."

"Oh." I blink a couple times. "So . . . why are you 'ere?"

She props her hands on her hips. "You've been avoiding me. You've come down to Hell a bunch of times in the past ten years and you've never come to visit me."

I look at her feet.

"You're scared, aren't you?" she says, lightly teasing. "Scared I'll be pissed at you for killing me."

I don't give her any response.

"The other guys – they say you know them as 'Jorge's gang' – say they're not mad at you. They say they know you were just a kid. Except Jorge, but he's a dick. Lilac even says thank you."

"Zat doesn't make eet any better," I snap.

She nods. "I know. I'm sorry. You probably didn't want to hear that."

She starts walking towards me, taking me in. "Jeez, you've grown so much but you're still so short," she says, shaking her head. "And those are some seriously nasty scars. And you're smoking? Really, Christophe, really?"

I reach up and find the stub of a cigarette between my lips. I seem to have acquired magical powers when it comes to smoking. I pluck the stub from my mouth and drop it to the chessboard at my feet. I'm standing between a black and a white square.

"I don't know what to say to you."

"It's okay," she says amiably, still walking towards me. "I know you've done all your crying, and, anyway, if you started up right now it would seriously freak me out."

I stick my tongue out at her, a decidedly childish impulse, and she giggles and stops right in front of me.

"For what it's worth," she says, "I'm really proud of you."

I start to shake my head, but she glares at me and I stop.

"You might have fucked up kind of a lot," she says, "but you've done some good things and you've tried your hardest, and you're a good person, Christophe, you really are, I know you are."

I make a small sound. It's all I can summon in the way of vocalization.

"I believe in you," she says. "I think you can do it. I think you can do whatever you have to do to keep our world from plunging into, you know, a thousand years of darkness. Or at least keep a bunch of people from dying."

I want to protest. But something in her eyes makes me just shut up and listen to her. And it feels kind of good to have someone's full confidence in me.

"Zank you." I heft my shovel and strap it over my back.

She stands on her tippy-toes. I bend down to give her better access. She plants a kiss on my cheek. Her lips feel cool and dead.

"Have a really long, really exciting life," she says.

I nod. "I promise."

"Good." She grins as she starts to fade away. The last thing I see before she's gone is the white of her eyes and her teeth.

* * *

I take a deep breath and turn to face the High Heavenfilth and Hellspawn before me. They seem frozen in place, just like the angels and demons outside our chessboard.

I walk over to Damien's side, Hell's side. I know what I have to do. I touch his shoulder and he comes alive. Even though his only color is still black and draped in shadows, he blinks and looks at me.

"Christophe," he breathes out, and throws his arms around me. I hug him back, as hard as I can.

"I don't know what the fuck you're doing," he says, "but I think you should keep doing it."

"Your fazzer-" I glance at Satan. His eyes narrow.

"I'll deal with him. I promise."

I nod and pull away. Bits of gray from my shoulders and arms coat his chest. The colors swirl around his body, shifting his color from black to a very dark gray. My own grayish color changes to even darker. When I pull back from him, Damien freezes him up again. His lighter color contrasts with Kenny and Butters.

I walk over to Kenny and Butters. My finger brushes Kenny's elbow. He unfreezes and looks at me, blinking blackness. The shadows swirl around him as he shifts.

"Those bastards killed everyone I love," he says.

"I know."

"I want to kill them."

"Dragging ze whole world down wiz zem eesn't going to fix anyzing," I say.

He nods and lets me drag more grayness around his cheek. His body turns a dark gray, the same shade as Damien's. He, too, freezes up when I pull away.

Butters is the next one. He doesn't look at me, probably because he doesn't have eyes.

"I don't wanna hurt anymore," he mumbles.

"You won't," I promise.

He nods and buries his head into Kenny's chest. I trace gray streaks over his body. When I step back, they're three dark gray, frozen statues.

I turn and cross over to Heaven's side of the chessboard. I stare at the three of them. I don't know if any of them would let me change their colors.

In the end, I wake Maria up first. She hugs herself and stares at me.

"I feel so alone," she confesses. "Gregory's so full of fear now, you're so full of hate. Chase was the only one ever there for me. I'm so alone."

"I-" I don't know what to say to that, so I just hug her. She resists for a second, then hugs me back. Her body shifts from pure white to a foggy gray.

Pip is next.

"I don't want to be a monster," he says.

"Eet's not being wiz 'eaven or 'ell zat makes you a monster," I say. "Eet's not ze magic, eizzer. I guess I know zat now. Eet's only 'ow you choose to use eet."

He bites his lip and lets me color him with gray streaks.

It takes me five minutes to work up the courage to reach out and touch Gregory's arm. He looks at the others, at their gray hues, and then he looks down at me.

"I'm afraid," he says. "I've always been afraid."

I reward him with a slight smile.

"I'm afraid of being impulsive. I'm afraid of not having a plan. I'm afraid of mucking something up and screwing everyone over."

He catches my hand and presses it against his cheek. When my hand moves down to grasp his shoulders, I have left a gray handprint on his skin.

"You've always been the hero, Christophe," he says. "And I – I want to be a hero, too."

I paint his body with my hands, coloring him with gray. And when I step back to the center, the other six come alive on their own and walk towards me. We reach out and touch each other, until we're all different hues and different shades of gray. But we're not divided anymore. We're all on the same side now.

I pull my shovel off my back. The six circle around me. I stick a fresh cigarette in my mouth, and Damien lights it with a spark from his finger.

Then I ram the shovel into the earth, cracking the chessboard.

* * *

The world comes alive again.

* * *

We don't smell like High Heavenfilth and Hellspawn anymore. We smell like us. Satan is the first to notice.

"Son!" he screams, striding towards us. The chessboard has disappeared and the world has rushed back. The sounds of the raging battle below us greet my ears, and the wind whips through my hair.

"Son! What have you done? What about your destiny as the antichrist? You're supposed-"

"Fuck destiny," Damien snarls, and lunges for his father.

He tackles Satan. He might be half his father's size, but he's strong and spitting fury. Chains come out of nowhere and rap around his father's ankles and wrists. Satan opens his mouth, (to, what, tell Damien off again?), but a gag forms over his lips.

"I'm taking your position as King of Hell and Prince of Darkness. You've done a fucking terrible job of it so far, and I think it's only right I try to a better job. If you refuse to accept my superiority, then we'll have a real fucking fight."

Satan glares up at him. The chains on his wrists and ankles start to fade. Damien rolls his eyes.

They roll off the roof. I think they're going to crash to the ground for a few seconds, but then the two of them rise up, each sporting a pair of black wings. Satan starts to build up a fireball in his hands. Damien rolls his eyes again (teenager, true to form) and slams into his father. This time, they really do crash to the grand, amidst the soldiers screaming fights underneath us.

The soldiers clear away. Damien ends up on top of his father. Brass knuckles form on his fists. He punches him in the face over and over again, lightning bursting from his fist with each blow. After a minute, he climbs up off Satan. His father's face is a bloody hunk.

He spits down on his father. "You suck so hard," I hear him yell. "But I'm not going to kill you, because you're not a total asshole. You're just kind of a pussy and kind of stupid, too. And you're my dad."

His wings ruffle behind him before flying up to the roof and landing besides me.

"Anyone got any questions?" he snaps, looking pissed off and pleased all at once. "Damn, I've been wanting to do that for years."

"My liege," Kenny says, bowing his head mockingly. Damien snorts. The other demons on the roof bend down to their knees and bow for real.

Esalen starts to clap. She and the other angels of the council are clustered on the other side of the roof.

"Bravo," she says. "Not that it changes anything. We will still-"

"Shut up," Damien snaps. "You're not going to win this war. None of your precious High Heavenfilth will fight for you. You don't even have God's support on this one. You're just a bunch of looser-ass angels on your own."

"Gregory!" Rita Grayson says. "Gregory, you-"

He glowers at her before taking a deep breath and snarling out his words.

"I'm not going to listen to you anymore," he says. "You're crazy and messed up in the head. You might preach to me about how I'm meant to be God's chosen or whatever, but you don't have any idea what you're talking about. I – I – I'm not going to listen to you. Not anymore. And the only reason I'm not killing you right now is that we're trying for this new thing called 'peace.'"

She starts to speak again, but then a voice booms. We all stiffen.

The voice fills the rooftops and echoes down over the battlefield. The soldiers all look up at the sky as if they're expecting something.

_All right_, God sighs out. _This has gone on long enough_.

Esalen's eyes widen.

_I let you angels play at your game because I hoped the children you warped would be able to end the final battle between heaven and hell as peacefully as possible, because I knew it was something I would not be able to stop if I didn't want to interfere with your free will. And they did manage to end it without massive casualties. But I'll be damned if you try to fight anymore. Those who are allied to me, I command you to stop fighting._

Down below, all the Heavenfilth for a dozen or so miles of battle freeze up.

"And you Hellspawn, listen to me! I don't want you to fight, either!" Damien yells out, his voice amplified by magic. Thousands upon thousand upon millions of soldiers stare up at us.

"We're done, okay?" Damien yells. "We're done." He grins at me. "And we're going home."

I stare at him. I can't comprehend it, can't believe it.

I can't be alive. It can't be over. God can't- what- no-

_You have done well, my son_, God whispers into my ear._ Is there any wish you would have me grant?_

I look at Purple and I look at Rita Grayson and I look at the angels who have made my life and my friends' lives purgatory for the past eleven years.

"I want you to bring Yardale School crashing down to it knees."

The roof starts to rumble beneath me.

* * *

By the time I have the intelligence to realize that was a really, really stupid request, it's already too late.

The roof gives way under my feet. Damien's arms rap around me right before we start to plummet downwards. Crashing through floors, plaster and wood collapsing around us. I black out for a few seconds.

When I come to, we're buried under rubble. I panic, breathing in dust and coughing like crazy. Miraculously, I only have a few scrapes. Damien's arms pull me close to him; he's buried even deeper than me. I figure he must have cast a protective shield. Or God somehow manage to spell the collapse of the building into something safe, which is pretty likely in retrospect.

A hand reaches through the rubble above my face. I stick my hand up past some plaster. The hand grabs onto my wrist and drags me free. I emerge from the rubble, hacking up dust, unsteadily rising to my feet. Damien comes out after me. Gregory lets go of me and drops his hands to his sides.

"You cocksucking beetch," I say, and punch him in the shoulder. He looks down at my fist in surprise, then grins. I grin back at him. And we don't need any more than that, because we've shared a smile, a real smile, for the first time in ten years.

Because Yardale School has come crashing down!

I glance up at where the roof should be. The metal beams stretch up to the sky for a couple of stories, but most of the school has collapsed onto the ground floor, hence the huge piles of rubble under our feet. The afternoon sky above us is just starting to fade into red. The soldiers on the pseudo-battlefield around us are already picking up their weapons and heading . . . away. To their homes, I suppose? The angels and demons are warping out of this reality and to their respective corporeal planes.

Kenny flutters to the ground, Butters in his arms. His wings fade and he kicks at a piece of plaster. "I need to get him to a hospital," he growls out, and stomps from the school. Pip follows after him.

"You guys! You guys!"

Maria bursts from a pile of rubble a few dozen feet away. She leaps to her feet, shakes some dust from her hair, and lunges for Gregory. She hugs him, hard.

"It's gone," she sobs into his arms. "We're free. We're free now. They can't hurt us anymore. They took Chase but we're alive and we're free."

And it's true. The angels who broke us are still alive and in Heaven. They deserve to die but if we kill them it'll contradict our words of peace, so we have to let them be (until they threaten us). And we're strong now, strong enough to take them on, strong enough to take anyone on.

The four of us start to make our way out from the remains of Yardale School. We cross the threshold where the door used to be and make our way over the bloodstained grass. I think God is laughing out there.

"Huh," Damien says. Then: "That sucked. Let's never do that again."

"Promise," I say, and grab his wrist with my left hand. With my other hand, I reach over my shoulder and grab my shovel. I inspect it for a few minutes as we walk down the road, away from Yardale and away from the wreck of this place. Satan has already disappeared from the patch of ground where he lay.

"'ow's eet feel to be ze Prince of Darkness?"

"Pretty normal," he says.

I stop and slide my shovel back into its sheath on my back. I light a fresh cigarette, then pass out cigarettes to everyone else. Maria coughs on hers.

"Let's get ze 'ell out of 'ere."


	27. Epilogue

_**Damien**_

As I stumbled away from the burning wreckage that used to be Yardale School, I was only certain on five things about Christophe.

First of all, he takes his coffee with extra sugar, extra cream, and extra caffeine.

He'll wake up at five-thirty every morning, regardless of when he went to bed the night before.

He sleeps under the bed if there's no one to hold him at night.

If you ever insinuate weakness in him, he will want to beat the living shit out of you with his shovel.

And, finally, if you ask him if he's crying and he snorts and calls you a cocksucker, it means he's not crying. If you asking him if he's crying, and he says, no, why would he cry, he's not crying, he's too strong to cry, it means he's sobbing his heart out.

We'd only known each other for a bit more than three months. We were both seventeen. We both had a lot of growing up to do.

As time passed, we came to understand each other better. I learned more important information about him. Don't wake him up too suddenly or sneak up on him, don't stay out for more than a few hours without calling him to reassure him you're okay, and never, for the love of god, _never_ suggest getting a pet dog.

He learned some things about me, too.

When he yells at me, I either yell back or I fall apart completely. When he stalks away after a particularly fearsome argument, I think he's left me forever and I curl up into a ball in our bed, and only his hugs and apologies later (after he's calmed down) can convince me otherwise. When I'm alone in a crowd, I feel this choking emptiness eating away at me, and I'm terrified for no reason.

I can't argue the same way, and I can't show the same sympathy for others as I could before.

Yardale School broke me of that.

Now I'm constantly terrified someone will grow too angry with me and take out their anger with physical force or threats. I use my hunched-over shoulders and the bangs in my eyes as shields against others' anger.

Sometimes, though, I can bitch out morons and laugh and scoff and not care what others think about me.

In retrospect, it's incredible we both managed to pull through the months and years after that. We both had nightmares, night terrors, hallucinations, and paranoia so deep we double-locked all the doors to our apartment and hid under our bed together, shaking the night away.

There are some therapists in Hell, and they gave us tricks and tips to help us deal with the normal world.

In the end, only time helped us start to heal.

We were both horribly deprived as children. Christophe by his ordeal with Yardale School and then his years as a mercenary, and me by my father and my monotonous life down in Hell. We both knew survival tidbits from the lives we'd managed to etch out before we met each other, but it wasn't enough. So no matter how much we learned about each other, there were some things we had to learn together.

Like: No, you cannot kill your neighbor's dog and cremate it just because it barks too much.

Or: When it snows, you're not supposed to go out and make a snowman with huge junk; you're too old for that.

(We do it anyway).

Also: It's illegal for two men to get married. What the fuck? Apparently we're supposed to get something called a 'civil union'. Ah, whatever, it's legal down in Hell and up in Heaven, and that's where it counts.

I learn something about jealousy: When your mate's best friend (who also kissed him several times, I might add) goes around the world with him fighting crime (for the right price) you're supposed to just trust your mate's word that nothing's happening. That doesn't mean I didn't order my demons to follow them for the first dozen missions.

And, most importantly: When those kids who come around on October 31st wearing retarded costumes and saying 'trick or treat', if you tell them 'trick' and slam the door in their faces, they'll go home crying, and their parents, who are also your neighbors, will come and give you a stern talking to. Stern talking to's are surprisingly scary.

When you have your own kids, you actually have to help them make their costumes so they can go around mooching candy off other people on Halloween. If you tell them to make their own damn costumes, they'll start crying and run to their other dad, who will chew you out for acting like 'such a fucking beetch, just 'elp zem wiz zeir goddamn costumes already.'

Said kids need to attend elementary school, instead of following their other dad around the world on various mercenary missions.

Said kids also cannot follow you down to Hell when you need to torture damned souls. If you allow them to watch you torture damned souls, and you, say, start teaching them about your work, they will be horribly scarred for life.

_My_ dad showed me how to torture the damned when I was younger than them, and look how well I turned out. Kids these days are wimps.

Children are so confusing. If your youngest comes to you with a nightmare, you can't tell her to suck it up because she will cry for three days straight. You have to hug her and hold her tight and tell her it was just a dream, even though scarier shit has happened to you in real life.

There are disadvantages to being the prince (sorry, king now) of Hell. The aging thing. I look older than I did those years ago with the Yardale School, but not by a whole lot, and neither does Christophe. Our adopted kids, though, continue to age. Soon no one will believe who their parents are.

But we survive. We move on. We live our lives.

Our youngest child is the only girl, and Christophe insisted on naming her Emma. Every year on a specific date in March, he'll take her out to the rooftops of our apartment building. He doesn't want me to go with him for these excursions, but I know what he and Emma do.

They stand and admire the sun as it rises up from the horizon. He tells her silly rhymes and tickles her. Then he brings her down to our apartment, kisses me on the cheek, and makes French toast for everyone.


	28. Final Author's Notes

OHMIGOD IT'S THE END!

I would like to thank: (takes deep breath)

_Oriental Nightmare__, __J.__, __SexyNarwal__, __Cutie Pie 9335__, __Lupelie__, __The Truth's Lie__, Notebookchen__, __0chibi0lawliet0, Awesome Cakes, __Jugendfrei, __princessbelle212__, __Failing Wings__, Kai Rain, seishun, Lewis Frost, Un Auteur Sexy, Rumanya, ConverseG1rl, TopHatGirl, Koi, Koi Carp, SunstreakersGlitch, A.C. Lucius, Addicted Fool, FireOfTheDragon, OrangeInTheSun, xxSay, SimaRhi, Burlesque Romantique, The-Alli-Cat, Xombie-Monster, 'im too lazy to log in', 'say yes to tacos', sunnyxx, X3 Keneric luff X3, and __Ffion Eirlys_ for taking the time to review. I read every single review and they all meant so much to me. You guys rock. (insert sniffling).

I would also especially like to thank Jugendfrei, for helping me out all times she did, and Burlesque Romantique, who gave me awesome reviews and loads of music, TopHatGirl for always being so reassuring, and apatur4iris, who drew amazing fanart on dA. You should all go check out her gallery, because she is a talented artist: http:/apatur4iris (DOT) deviantart (DOT) com/

ALSO, I have to thank Aiconx on dA, because although she does not know it, a dojinshi she drew inspired me to write this damn thing. http:/aiconx (DOT) deviantart (DOT) com/gallery/24860545

AND, I would like to thank all of you for taking the time to read all the way through this story. Your faves, your story alerts, your author alerts – everything means so much to me, you guys. (insert more sniffling). I could not have done it without you.

FINALLY, I would like to thank my best friend ever in the history of the universe, Mel. I don't have a link to her fanfiction account, because she refuses to give it to me, but here is her dA account: http:/jinxweaver (DOT) deviantart (DOT) com/ She's a good artist, go check her out. She's probably never going to read this because she hates South Park with a burning passion, but it's all because of her that I was able to write this entire fic, since she inadvertently taught me everything I know about writing.

PHEW. Thank god that's over.

* * *

It's so weird what CTTG ended up being. It was supposed to be ten chapters long, and about 1/3 the length. It ended with an epic battle of doom, there was no Gregstophe at all, and I had very little angst. I hope you guys are happy with the way it turned out. There are plenty of things I'm itching to change, but I'm not going to because I feel it would be unfair to you who read it along with me as I wrote it.

If you've read all the way through my 150,00 + word fanfic, please, please, please leave a review. PLEASE. If you've taken the time to read through the equivalent about six hundred pages of my writing, PLEASE take the time to tell me what you think of it.

Even if you're not going to tell me what you think, I'm proud of myself for finishing something that long, even if it was a bit anticlimactic. (No. I told myself I was not going to rant about all the things I screwed up on. NO. Bleh).

* * *

A lot of people have asked me if there's going to be a sequel.

The answer is not no. The answer is, "FUCK. NO."

I am done with CTTG.

If you liked my work for the angst, the action, and the profanity, then please feel free to check out my numerous assorted oneshots.

If you liked it for the pairing . . .

TT_TT

Well, if you liked CTTG just for the pairing, there's not much I can do about that, other than direct you over to the dojinshi aiconx drew on dA.

* * *

My future work:

I am pleased to announce that my next ridiculously long multi-chap work is going to be a Mysterion fic, title yet unknown. It will be angsty and full of drama! Please check it out when it's up, which will probably not be until December or so.

Until then, I'm probably going to be publishing some more oneshots, including a mini-present McTucker/Crenny oneshot for apatur4isis, as a thank you for the fanart. Rest be assured, I will not be leaving the SP fandom for quite some time, although I do have to work on my original fiction if I ever want to fulfill my dreams of becoming a published writer.

All in all, thank you so much, everyone, for reading and reviewing and faving and frankly, just getting this far through all the stupid shit I did with this story.

You guys rock my socks off.

Until next time!

_-lizoftheinfinite_


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